Miami - Caribbean Cruise left me wanting more

Miami – Caribbean Cruise leftleft meme wanting more

The Caribbean sea is 7,000 something metres deep – childsplay to the depth Enzo’s dick travelled last night inside of me. When I booked the cruise, the company promised me many things. All inclusive drinks and food, lots of sun and stop-offs. What wasn’t advertised in the package deal was the handsome, Italian nomad I met who now sends me handwritten letters biweekly confessing his love.

Enzo runs an online business and country-hops every month or so. He was in America for two weeks, Miami for one, and the cruise is where we met. Solo travelling bonds you to other singles… perhaps a little too much.

I was nannying in Colorado for a family for five months. Miami was the final destination on my itinerary of places to travel. Weeks of hiking, of hostel-hopping and sightseeing had left me exhausted, and what I craved most was some alcohol and a sit down. The last minute cruise deal I stumbled upon online seemed perfect, so I booked. What I needed was sun, a sun lounger, and bikini tan lines that I could flex to my friends back home in London when I returned the next week.

I was paging through a book I couldn’t quite sink my teeth into on the second day when Enzo sat next to me. His body, beautifully sun-kissed, looked almost too good to be true, and his hair, a black, dishevelled mop on top of his head, blew away from his face in the wind to reveal features I still drool over at night. A pair of olive green eyes scanned my face and when he pursed his lips to ask: “is this seat free?” a rich Italian accent blessed my ears. So satisfying and yummy, like melted chocolate.

I didn’t bother folding over the page in my book. Just bapped it shut. “No. It’s free.”

“Good.” He crossed his arms over his head and settled down on the lounger.

I thought that would be it. That things would return to silence, I’d pick back up my book and give it another shot, and that would be that.

But no.

He turned on his side to face me. “You here alone?”

“Yes.”

Probably not the wisest thing to be doing, announcing to a stranger that I’m solo traveling when there’s fucked up psychopaths hiding in plain sight all around the world, but when someone’s hot, the brain automatically deems them trustworthy.

“Do you wanna explore St Lucia with me tomorrow? I’m alone here too.”

“Sure.”

And then came the small talk. Enzo. Thirty. Owned a scooter business in Amalfi and started managing it online two years ago from his laptop. Hated grapes, only the red ones tasted good, and Lake Como, in his humble opinion, was prettier than the entire Campania region in Italy. Tomatoes, he insisted, were only supposed to be eaten in summer when they were the most ripe, and the beaches in Miami were the best he’d ever laid eyes on.

“I don’t want to leave.” He stared at the sky and adjusted his sunglasses when the sun emerged from behind one of the cruise’s funnels. “I say that about every place, though. I think I can’t get better until I move on, and it’s better.”

I’d sort of been the same with relationships. My whole reasoning for nannying in America was because of a fatal breakup. Not in the way of cheating – the decision was mutual. Just in the way of outgrowing one another. It hit me two weeks after. I called in sick for work because I couldn’t face the world, so days were spent, not replying to emails and engaging in company gossip, but on my mattress, cocooned in unwashed blankets, regretting everything. My ex was the best thing that ever happened to me, I was convinced, and without him, my life was guaranteed to downfall.

But it didn’t. Chilling in Dior sunglasses on route to St Lucia was very much an improvement, and little did I know things were about to accelerate further.

To cool off, we took a dip in the swimming pool, trying our best to float on our backs in the chlorine water to watch the sky. Not like there was much to look at – clouds didn’t exist out here – but it was relaxing.

“We live our lives under one sky,” Enzo observed. “How often is it that we take a second to admire it?”

We swam to the shallow end to rest our legs, and it was here that Enzo’s eye contact lingered. Exhausted from talking, we resorted to staring into one another’s eyes, smiling. Any minute now, I thought, he’d say goodbye and retire to his room, but the sun kept arching in the sky until sunset was imminent, and my skin was no different to that of a prune’s. Hours had passed of us in the shallow end basking in sun and one another’s company.

“We should grab some food together tonight. It’s on me.”

I dressed in a ribbed midi skirt and a blouse – both beige coloured. Classy, was the fashion style I’d adopted lately, after years of showing too much of my body. Modest clothes left more intrigue, I found, and with my cleavage covered, there was no distraction. Men had only my face to look at and that was the thing they fell in love with the most. Not like my plan was to put a love spell on Enzo. I just fancied myself a little cruise romance to restore my faith in men and dating.

Until I met him again and realised that I was the one in trouble of falling too deep. Grey, tailored trousers shaped his long legs spectacularly and a drapey, off white shirt hung loose from his tanned body to expose a third of his chest – half outside when the wind got hold of it. His olive eyes looked even more piercing in the evening when in line with the warm, chandelier light, and just like Rose and Jack’s meeting on the Grand Staircase in Titanic, he kissed my hand when I approached him.

Fried shrimp skewers, I had, with fresh broccoli salad and creamed potatoes. Prosecco went to my head, and we continued drinking it when we were done eating, telling one another anecdotes.

The lingering eye contact continued, and when it was my turn to talk, Enzo’s eyes would drop to my lips. Control ran away from him – he couldn’t still his gaze. I’d not long ago just finished eating but already, my appetite was back, travelling south of my stomach and into my pelvis, that shuddered, each time Enzo opened those pretty, plump lips of his to speak. How would it feel to kiss him on the mouth? To see those lips pursed around one of my nipples? His head between my thighs. How long would I be able to last?

“You want to fuck me.”

Jazz melodies from the bar filtered back into my ear. “Excuse me?”

“I think you should.”

I threw him a questionable look.

“Fuck,” he clarified. “We should. And if I got the wrong impression, then cool. You leave, I’ll sort out the bill, and we’ll continue our lives. No hard feelings.” The soft look in his eye indicated that it was in fact, no biggie. “I just feel,” he said, leaning forward, “that it’s an opportunity wasted if we both feel the same and take no action. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Garlic and prosecco were the flavours on his tongue when I tangled it with mine. If there’s one stereotype about Italians that’s true – it’s their talent in the bedroom. His room was adorned with mahogany wood, the bed frame, the floor, the walls. Everything. The air smelled nice too, fragrant with the seasalt aroma of his cologne.

We landed on the mattress seconds after entering his room. His eyes were profound enough to move mountains. Returning his gaze, I felt myself being sucked into his soul, but I wouldn’t have minded because it seemed like a safe place to be.

He undid the buttons on my blouse with fingers my mouth wanted to suck, and when he removed his shirt to expose pillars of toned muscle, I was quite sure that life couldn’t exceed this moment.

But it did… when I climbed into his lap to take him inside.

Had I known prior that I was going to be riding nine inch, Italian dick, I would’ve integrated some pelvic floor exercises into my daily routine to prepare because holy shit, even at maximum wetness, it took several minutes for my body to adjust.

Enzo liked to moan, and when edging towards orgasm, he’d pinch my forearm and tell me to slow down.

After some hip moving experimentation, his dick hit treasure. I laid on his chest, clutched the back of his head – tufts of his hair trapped between my fingertips – and rode his lap like a fucking jockey trying to score first place.

First place is exactly what I came during climax. That was it. The epitome of human experience. It wasn’t possible to surpass this feeling. To experience a greater high. Finishing around Enzo’s dick was the highest level, so naturally, when the orgasm passed, I plummeted back down to reality and felt, strangely, a wave of sadness replace the ecstatic feeling in my gut. I wanted more than a couple days with him.

I wanted a lifetime.

We spent the majority of our time together on and off the boat. Days were spent ambling around the Caribbean under the beating sun, and nights involved fucking and star gazing out on his balcony.

“I’ll write to you,” he said to me in the line for disembarkment, back in Miami. “It doesn’t matter where in the world we are. Just that we exist to one another.”

Two weeks later, I received my first handwritten letter in the post from him. For two pages, he wrote about his recent travel experiences and asked questions about me, my recent endeavours, as a prompt for me to write back. At the end of the letter before he closed it off with his signature, were the words: “I’ve moved on to many places, but I was wrong about it always being better. It’s not this time, because I’m not sharing life with you.”