Intro to a FICTIONAL short story I'm working on.

We stood on the bow of the yacht, watching the sun fade into water that surrounded us. The wind blew softly over the sea as it reflected a pinkish gray sky. I stared off into the distance as he held my waist tightly and I could feel his eyes on me. Without even looking, I can tell you that his cinnamon eyes were probably solemn and sad as we neared our destination. And it was because of me. It was because I was leaving. But he wasn’t the first or last.
Sterling was a fine man—and a wealthy one, too; ambitious, smart, funny. And as much as he loved the United States for all the business it gave him, he hated it; the publicity, the crowds, the constant violation of privacy. After thirty years of sweat and blood, he had decided to live in Italy. And that’s where he’s been for the past five years or so. I’ve been here for about a year, maybe two.
We met by chance, and I feel that it is always by chance that such matters occur, at the airport. And no it wasn’t one of those “I’ll leave you my number, let’s get together” movie bits, where one of us ends up following the other. It was average at best. We were both flying to Rome; I, on vacation, him, back home. Our seats ended being next to each other and that’s roughly how it started.
He knew I was young. Young enough to even be his daughter, but that didn’t seem to sway him. Not once did we mention age. That was how I separated keepers from leavers. And Sterling was certainly a keeper. After that, it was all about time.
I knew I didn’t love him. And I knew that he could learn to love me. And I don’t feel I realised it too late, but rather at the wrong time. We were mid making love. He was a fit man, given age and all. He really did spend time exercising. But sometimes, and understandably so, he’d get tired. He was jetlagged and sleepless and make no mistake; I’m not trying to give excuses or justify my thoughts. I honestly don’t know why it hit me then, but I can say it wasn’t due to performance. I never much cared about sex in that way. I don’t find it emotional and I don’t find it necessary. It’s more a bonus if anything. But as his breaths began to speed up and his heart began to beat faster, it was then that I had realised I couldn’t love him. And at the time I couldn’t understand why. It’s safe to say I didn’t try to.
I started to walk down the side of the yacht slowly, feeling his grip loosen and hearing the soft sounds of my feet against the wood. I passed the bedroom where we had made love so frequently these last few weeks. Maybe he knew I was going to leave and wanted more of me. Maybe he thought that he could make me stay if he tried harder. But the truth is that I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have. I wish I hadn’t at all. And I know he’ll hate me for some time. Wish the worst upon me, maybe. My only wish is that somewhere down the road, he realises our time was something to cherish and remember, something that makes him smile, something that he keeps as a warm memory.
I said I knew I didn’t love him and I didn’t try to understand at the time, but when I did, even then I couldn’t figure it out. The first thing my mind would turn to, I’d always tune out because it was the same thing every time.
It never happened in Italy. That’s the important part. Whenever I’d accompany him to the States—that was when it would happen. When Sterling and I would walk around the city any city, the glares were almost instantaneous, the disgust and astonishment, that a man could kiss a woman that was twenty years his junior. But like I said, he wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last.