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By late afternoon, the shyness had been replaced by a heady, intoxicating bravado. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. “Let’s go in,” I suggested, nodding toward the turquoise water.
The Mediterranean wasn’t the calm pool we’d seen in brochures. The waves were rhythmic and heavy, crashing against the shore with a primal force that made Kristen hesitate at the foam’s edge. We were waist-deep when the power of the undertow made her stumble. She grabbed my arm, her bare skin slick with salt, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement.
That’s when he appeared.
He was about ten yards away, a man in his late fifties who looked like he had been carved out of the very cliffs surrounding the bay. He wasn’t a gym-obsessed athlete; he had the solid, thick build of a man who worked with his hands and ate well. His skin was a deep, permanent bronze, and he wore his nudity with a casual, terrifying confidence.
I had seen him earlier. I’d watched him from my towel as he sat on a nearby rock, his eyes fixed shamelessly on Kristen’s chest as she’d applied sunscreen. At the time, I’d felt a surge of possessive heat that quickly curdled into a dark, pulsing arousal. Now, in the water, there was nowhere to hide.
“The tide is turning,” he called out, his voice a gravelly, melodic baritone. He spoke English with a thick accent that made the words feel heavy. “You must be careful of the shelf. It drops quickly here.”
He swam toward us with easy, powerful strokes. As he stood up in the shallow water, the sheer scale of him became apparent. He was a “silver fox” in the truest sense—mature, imposing, and completely unbothered by our presence. I felt a sudden, frantic throb behind my fly. I was standing there, half-hard in the surf, watching this stranger lock eyes with my wife.
He didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped into our personal space, the water swirling between the three of us. “I am Andre,” he said, offering a hand to Kristen. “Come. I know the path through the rocks. You can see the sunset better from the sandbar.”
Kristen looked at me, searching for a “no,” for a protective intervention. But I remained silent, my heart racing as I watched his large, calloused hand wrap around her delicate fingers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let out a breath she’d been holding since we landed, and allowed the stranger to lead her deeper into the sea.