Page 65 of Born To Be Bad

ALISTAIR

We arrive at the venue early, as is best to do with this kind of party.

“We’re going on a boat?” marvels Ivy.

It’s not just any boat. “It’s the Crescent Moon Party Cruise,” I say.

“Is that code for a Thai boat sex party?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, touching her hair and pulling at her dress. “I’m not ready for this.”

I pause. “What do you need to feel ready?”

“I don’t know,” she replies. “Shower? Floss? Brush my teeth?”

I laugh. “I’ll buy you some gum. We’ll get on board and have a drink. It’s not scheduled to sail until ten. If you feel uncomfortable we’ll disembark before then.”

“I’m not dressed for a sex party,” she says.

I gesture at the buzzing commerce that surrounds us. “The market is still open. I can buy you a gold bikini.”

Her smile is wicked. “Only if you buy one for yourself, too.”

I smack her bottom and kiss her. In a playful mood, we pick through a few possibilities at the market, laughing and teasing each other. She throws something yellow at me. It’s a furry banana hammock. I grimace and chuckle, then quickly drop it back into one of the display baskets. There’s no telling where it’s been.

Soon we find a ridiculously sexy metallic dress, killer glitter stilettos, and a tiara. Sexy, but fun. Perfect.

The smell of grilled chicken, wood smoke, and coconut curry wafts toward us, and something sweet, too, but I can’t put a name to it. Bustling people snack and shop around us. The tourists are easy to spot: they’re inevitably taller than the locals, sunburnt and/or bandaged from minor scooter accidents. Ivy finds a white and bronze Hawaiian-print shirt with gold detailing, presses the cheap plastic hanger against my chest to see if she likes it on me, and then gives me the thumbs up.

“Hot,” she mouths. Even though she’s joking, it sends a warm wave through me. To be wanted by an intelligent and interesting woman is the most compelling aphrodisiac imaginable. I can’t wait to get her onto that superyacht. Another warm wave, this time more concentrated in my pelvis. The shop owner allows us to change in her back room, a dim cubicle with a bare lightbulb and cracked mirror. The aroma of fabric dye and earthy spice pervades.

Soon, we’re out on the street again, heading toward the party. I run my hand up and down Ivy’s back, enjoying her proximity on this warm sultry night.

“This is so lovely,” she says, moving closer.

I’m uncertain if she means being in a foreign country, the warm weather, or being out with regular people. Perhaps all three. We walk past a cotton candy stand, and I realize that’s the sweet aroma I’d picked up earlier. These sights, sounds, and scents will always remind me of Ivy and this night together.

I offer her my hand as we step onto the yacht. It’s an impressive size and looks brand new given the flawless chrome and gleaming mahogany. I’m always happy to arrive early at these events. In my experience, if you’re late, you’re unintentionally sidelined as the best people make their connections earlier on—although given Ivy’s incredible beauty I doubt she’d ever be a wallflower, no matter the milieu. We wend our way to the main bar where other patrons are chinking champagne glasses while surreptitiously scoping out the room. We accept a flute from a waitress wearing a dramatically large bowtie and sit on the white leather banquette.

“You’re making me nervous,” I say to Ivy.

She gapes, then chuckles. “I’m making you nervous?”

“Sitting there looking all sexy as fuck.”

“Hardly,” Ivy retorts.

“Oh, believe me, it’s true,” I say, tracing the midline of her thigh with my finger.

“Believe me, I’m the nervous one. Nervous enough for both of us, I’m sure.”

“Well,” I say, increasing the pressure. “There’s no need. Because I will always protect you, no matter what.”

Ivy leans forward, giving me a superb view of her cleavage. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I’m all ears,” I reply, although the more accurate response would be that I’m all cock, because that is the overriding feeling.

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