A 1-line description of the first day on Aphrodite? A shipful of hot bodies and amped-up sex drives. Whew. I never knew there were so many kinky beautiful people! Might have to pull out the Gritty Teeth-Rattling “Massager” later.
On to the Gritty Gossip:
At the christening-slash-launch ceremony today, while his wife was busy wasting a perfectly good bottle of Cristal by pounding it across the bow of the boat, Brett Grant appeared ready to pound something else. And by something else, I mean someone else. Namely, Carmyn Fenton. He seemed more interested in whispering sweet nothings in her ear than watching his wife at work. Also, I saw him grab an enormous handful of Lay-Techs–can’t miss ’em in those bright red wrappers–from an Aphrodite statue’s basket, and shove them in his slacks pocket.
Which begs the question: Is he planning to be using those condoms in someone else’s basket? Perhaps Bond’s sexy nemesis? Do he and his wife participate in sex parties, despite their claims to the contrary? Or does he have some communicable disease–gasp!–he has to protect her from?
Gritty, gritty, gossip!
Until tomorrow,
G-G-girl.
They all sat in silence for a few moments.
“Somebody sure has it out for us,” she said.
David shook his head. “More like somebody has it out for Brett.”
“The stuff in that blog–that was all in plain sight of the dock during the christening ceremony.” Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. “Hell, I think that scene was shot from several news cameras. It’s probably a hoax.” Yeah. What a relief. She hated going through that whole panicky thing.
“Just one problem, Vic. I was standing on the back side of the ceremony with Mark and Carmyn, hidden away from the dock. Only a person on the ship could have seen me speaking with Carmyn and pocketing those condoms. We’ve a genuine problem on board.”
“Fuck me to the moon.”
Chapter 8
Brett watched Vic pace the decking. He didn’t miss the way David’s eyes tracked her too. He was certainly an attractive bloke–no mistaking it, Vic knew how to choose a topnotch specimen. David was the sort other men could secretly envy for his good lucks, but not hold it against him. After all, he was undeniably a nice guy. Was nice a good quality, or bad, when considering sharing one’s wife? His cock twitched in answer. He’d worry about nice later. At least for now the idea of the man and Vic didn’t make him limp or want to throttle him, so he was a good choice. In any case, he’d made up his mind on the matter, and now the business needed his attention.
They had no way to find the device their onboard spy had used. Any sort of search would raise flags and cause an ensuing panic amongst the passengers. “We’ll just have to wait it out and see if that’s the last of it.”
“It won’t be the last of it,” Vic muttered. “Unless we can catch her–or him, if it’s some little gay guy who likes to call himself a girl. Unless we can find her, she’ll keep blogging.”
“It’s not all bad.” After all, it was publicity, and Vic had patently refused to Tweet during the cruise, though the publicity department had begged.
She whirled on him. “Which part is not bad? If we can’t assure our clients of confidentiality, then we’ve got nothing to offer them. For all we know, this person has a camera in the device, and next thing you know, there’ll be photos posted along with the blog. Not to mention, someone is back in the middle of our lives again. Trying to cause trouble between–wait just one minute. Andrea.” She folded her arms under her breasts, which caused a glorious fucking upheaval, pushing cleavage out over the top of her silky ivory sleeveless blouse.
“Erm. Andrea? You think this is her doing? So far as I know, Andrea is living off some sugar daddy in the South of France.” She’d latched on to some billionaire and probably wouldn’t let go until she’d sucked every bit of life–and semen–from his unsuspecting, decrepit soul.
“How could somebody blog?” David asked. “A lot of sites are blocked on those computers downstairs. Do you think she did it there?”
“There’s an admin password to get past the filters,” Vic answered, flopping into her seat again. “The blogger either used that password, or got on the private network.” She stood again. “I need to call the tech guys and find out which.”
Her lovely silk knee-length slacks gave such a satisfying glimpse of her ass as she sauntered away. “Vic.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “What?”
“Smile. I love your suit–the fabric clings in all the right places.”