Page 72 of Born To Be Bad

I’m sure I’ll only get more open about trying new things.

We decide to zip Alistair up and walk around the boat to see what’s happening. I can hear the laughter, shrieks, and splashing from the turquoise-lit pool before we reach it.

“I’ve always liked skinny-dipping,” I say.

“Yep,” he replies. “Definitely an exhibitionist.”

People all around the steaming pool, inside and out, are making out, face-sitting, sixty-nining, and old-fashioned slow poolside fucking.

“I wish I had access to this kind of party when I was younger,” I say. “I was such a horny teenager and this would have been my ultimate fantasy.”

“When you were younger?” asks Alistair.

“You know, like eighteen. All those good horndog hormones wasted because teenagers know nothing about great sex.”

“Did you just use the term ‘horndog hormones’?”

“I’m not sure where that came from exactly, but you get my point.”

“I do. You used to be a young nubile nymph, and now you’re a desiccated old hag unable to join a pool party because of your rusty joints.”

I push him away, shaking my head. He grabs me and pulls me back into his arms, his chest vibrating with his chuckling.

“Oops, Careful there. The tiles are wet. Wouldn’t want you falling and breaking a hip.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Honestly. I can’t tell you anything.” I don’t mean it. I do, however, feel like pushing him into the pool, but I don’t want him to inadvertently land on an orgy.

“Nonsense,” he replies. “Just because you’re a geriatric, doesn’t mean I can’t be your confidante.”

“You’re deliberately missing my point,” I say. “You’re being obtuse.”

“And you’re being delicious, as always. I would pay a great deal of money to meet you at eighteen when you were a … what? Horndog?”

“A horndog is one thing. A horndog with zero decent prospects is quite another.”

“Yes,” nods Alistair. “Zero ‘decent prospects’. A horndog out of a Jane Austen novel. Imagine the sex we could have had.”

“I would have worn you out in no time, old man,” I say.

He snorts. “I doubt that very much.” Then he freezes. “Wait. How many boys did you wear out?”

“Exactly zero,” I reply. “They didn’t know what they were doing, and neither did I.”

“A crying shame,” Alistair says. “Nothing short of a tragedy.”

“I guess we could make up for it.”

“Better late than never,” he agrees, pulling me close again to whisper in my ear. “Before the osteoporosis sets in.”

I change my mind about pushing Alistair into the pool when I feel his strong arms around me. I feel so safe wrapped in his muscular body, pressed against his chest and abs. And happy—happy that we’re out of danger, that we make each other laugh, that we get on so well—even though we’ve had a few fallouts, we always manage to get over them. Life with Alistair is exciting. Dangerous, yes, and unpredictable, but also fulfilling. Alistair gets me. I’ve never had a connection to a man like this before. Becks, yes, always, but never a man.

We keep walking. We want to see what’s on offer before making a decision. We pass a dance party, a fancy dinner, and a sound bath session, after which Alistair elbows me in the ribs to show me my “tribe”.

“Soon they’ll all be taking mushrooms and doing naked yoga with goats,” says Alistair. “You watch.”

“Ew,” I reply. “No, thank you.”

“But they are your tribe,” he insists.

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