The trip to the territory known as New Orleans had been a wild one. When he’d first landed on Earth, he’d planned to stay in his beloved Greece until old age and death allowed him to return to the Elysian Fields, but the best laid schemes of mice and defrocked gods often went astray.
First, he’d met a belly dancer named Kristina—an exotic tattooed beauty—who’d taken him to Paris to be something that translated roughly into “boy toy.” And when she’d tired of him, he’d taken up with a stunning young German woman who was backpacking through Europe. In the British Isles, now known as the UK, he parted ways with Dieta and met an American writer on vacation. Laney said she hailed from a town known as the Big Easy, and she invited him to come home with her.
How Bacchus had come to love New Orleans, and he loved it even more once Mardi Gras began. Which was where he met la belle Simone. On the solemn Wednesday that marked the abrupt end to the festivities, Simone made Bacchus an offer he couldn’t refuse. Her friend owned a yacht and would be in port the next day to pick her up. The boat turned out to be a floating palace of debauchery.
More giggling in the hall drew his attention. Now, where had the little minx gone?
Rum bottle in tow, he trotted out of his stateroom. The laughter grew louder. At a room farther up the passageway to his left, he knocked and called, “May I gain entry, pretty please?”
An athletic woman with dark chocolate curls and skin to match opened the door and grinned at him. “What?”
“May I come in?”
“Oh sure.” She pulled him by his neck and murmured, “Aren’t you a tall drink of water, sailor?”
“Funny you mention that. I spent quite a lot of time sailing around the Mediterranean. This was back in 500 BC when—” A kiss cut off his mindless rambling.
Oddly enough, the woman tasted like chocolate, too. She broke away from his lips and offered him a cocoa-colored drink garnished with three white chocolate truffles on a toothpick. “Godiva martini?”
Well, that explained that. A beautiful woman with a beautiful drink. Was there a more fantastic sight in all the world? “Thank you, love.” He winked, accepted the glass, and threw the rum bottle aside. “Seems we won’t be needing this.”
Another nubile woman appeared beside the ebony-skinned beauty. They looked at him as though he were the prime rib at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Two beautiful women and a beautiful drink. Indeed, he had found a more fantastic sight. Bacchus stood corrected.
“I’m Billie,” the dark woman said. “This is my friend Layla.”
Layla fluttered her fingers to say hello. She was tall with legs that stretched into the Afterlife, hair the color of harvested wheat, and so many dangerous curves.
He tossed back the martini in one gulp.
Giggling, Layla pushed him onto the bed and knelt beside him.
His lips crushed against hers.
Laughter rose from Billie, and she settled on the other side of him. Hot flesh pressed against him, the women stroking his skin.
His body melted against the mattress. What sweet surrender. Dizziness slowed reality, not the heavy, sickening dizziness he’d awoken with. This reeling was airy. Disconnected. Pleasant.
In slow motion, Billie slipped the spaghetti straps of Layla’s babydoll nightie down milky shoulders. For a moment, the garment fluttered to the ground. Or had an hour passed, the nightgown rippling mid-air?
The soft smack of someone’s lips became loud as Billie suckled Layla’s breast while removing her own bra and panties. Their laughter echoed as they reached for Bacchus.
One removed his shirt as another stripped his pants and underwear.
He felt fuzzy and light as a feather, as if he were hovering near the ceiling. But he must still be on the bed, because the satin sheets felt like a river of liquid silk.
He rubbed the nearest woman’s backside and chuckled. “What was in that drink?”
“Something to make you feel good all over,” Billie murmured.
That he did. Not that he needed any help to enjoy sex, but still, it was thoughtful of the women to heighten the experience. Pleasure coursed through his veins.
The dark-skinned beauty worked her way up his body and straddled his face Her musk ignited his loins and drew his core tight. Bacchus held her hips, devoured her clit and labia, and gorged himself on her tart juices. Her moans sounded like the music of angels.
Layla straddled his lap, rolled a condom over his hard cock, and slipped him inside her. Bacchus groaned. Finding Simone would have to wait.
* * * *
Bacchus awoke parched in a way he’d never before experienced. Olympus help him, he might have to resort to a glass of water. A sad state of affairs indeed.
He disentangled himself from…oh dear, what were the lovely ladies’ names? No matter. He kissed each of them on the cheek and bade them goodbye, though neither stirred from their slumber to return the farewell.
Staggering around the room, he sorted through the scattered clothing and found his. His head felt as though it’d been wrapped in freshly sheared wool and then encased in a ceramic urn. His thoughts echoed with alarming volume. Shh, he told himself to no avail.
Bacchus had been to the dining room on the yacht only once, when he’d first arrived. And he hadn’t had time to explore the various levels the ship offered. In fact, his venture into the Nubian princess’ room was the first time he’d left his cabin since Simone had pulled him below decks three nights ago. Was it three nights ago? It felt like only three, but it could’ve been a year for all that time and space had melded together.
He trudged into the glass-paneled elevator and slapped the buttons. One of the levels had to have an eatery of some type. Food, yes. That was what he needed. Food and water. Maybe a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Something nice and light. He swayed as the glass box halted, and the doors dinged open.
Emerging from the elevator, he wandered into yet another party that encompassed the entire deck. A glistening pool filled with revelers surrounded a bar shaped like the front end of a speedboat. Scantily clad waiters and waitresses ferried drinks on lifesavers-turned-serving-trays. With every passing moment, Bacchus gained more and more respect for the owner of this floating den of iniquity.
Every fiber of his being begged him to stay, to take part in the festivities, but his mortal needs won out. He stooped, yelling over the blaring music, and asked a waiter in the pool where he could find a meal. The young man, chest glistening with droplets of oil in his sparse chest hair, barked vague directions and pointed at a passageway to the right. Bacchus thanked him and headed down the corridor.
Unmarked doorways lined the hallway. None led to a room large enough to accommodate diners. He walked to the end, testing entryways as he went. The hall dragged on and on, but at last ended outside double doors covered in cream leather and brass studs. A porthole showed a group of men seated around a felt covered table.
He stepped through the swinging doors.
Three men with arms as thick as Bacchus’s two legs put together set upon him like Cererbus upon the souls of the damned. Lips drawn into flat lines, chests puffed out, the men formed a wall in front of Bacchus. Gone were the days when he could drive men to the brink of insanity with rage and passion. Best not to engage them.
“Did I interrupt something?” Bacchus threw in a smile for good measure.
“This party is invitation only,” said the shortest. A Spanish accent of some kind thickened his pronunciation of English vowels.
“My apologies, I’m looking for somewhere I might get to eat.”
A man, whose short-sleeved silk shirt hung off him in volumes