Summer of Aphrodite

Viva Jones

Description

When free-spirited Nathalie moves to Cyprus, birthplace of Aphrodite, she is the catalyst for change for three very different women: Cat lover Ginnie is looking for Mr Right but keeps making alcohol-fuelled errors of judgement; expat-wife Anna finds her sex-life lacking and is convinced that her husband is hiding something from her; while estate agent Tanya dreams of marrying someone sexy, rich and preferably famous. As the summer heats up, Nathalie and Anna embark on a passionate affair, Tanya gets drawn into a world of lusty but lucrative hedonism, while Ginnie has to avoid a compromising video from going viral. When Nathalie is troubled by a recurring nightmare, she discovers their neighbour Douglas, a new age guru, meditating in the moonlight. Barred by the Russian mafia who run the sea-front hookers, Douglas is looking for sexual escapism wherever he can get it. Could he be the force behind their sizzling-hot summer, or are they just falling under the spell of Aphrodite?

Sujets

• Erotic literature
• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 03 janvier 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782345961
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE SUMMER OF APHRODITE
The Magus Meets Desperate Housewives
By
Viva Jones



Publisher Information
The Summer of Aphrodite
published in 2014 by House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
An imprint of Andrews UK Limited
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Viva Jones 2014
The right of Viva Jones to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Prologue
It was what her French mother would call a nuit blanche. Unable to sleep, Nathalie climbed out of bed, wrapped herself up in an oversized towel and stole outside towards the sea. The air felt clammy against her skin, and her hair clung to the back of her neck. Arriving at the shore, she let the towel fall, hid her room-key within it and walked, naked, into the waves. It was nearly a full moon. God only knew what new madness might grip her in a day or so.
She swam out slowly, relishing the taste of salt water on her lips, and the feel of the sea massaging her skin. Once she was far out enough not to be able to hear any noise from the road or the sea-front night clubs, she flipped onto her back and floated, instantly achieving the kind of relaxation that had evaded her in bed. Her eyes closed and ears submerged, she was aware only of the sound of her own breathing, and of the slight breeze that fluttered across her body.
She could drown like this, she thought dreamily; exposing herself to the elements, to the gods of the sea, and quite possibly, a passing plane or two.
She’d only come to Cyprus to allow her newly-ex husband time to get his belongings out of their house. Earlier that day he’d texted her with the words: ‘carriage clock mother’s wedding present?’ and she’d laughed out loud. If he thought she’d ever wanted it in the first place then he hadn’t known her at all. How many times had she felt like smashing the damned thing? ‘Yours,’ she’d texted back. Just take what you want.
Maybe she’d been born in water? It was certainly where she felt most at home. The swimming baths near their house in London weren’t a patch on the Mediterranean, however. Nathalie was aware of her nipples, firm and brown, peeking up towards the sky, full of the stars she’d rarely ever seen in town, and of her mound of pubic hair, surfacing like an island in the water. She let one hand glide down between her legs and slip between her folds. This was her new life, she thought, stroking herself languidly. She’d swim here every day, and eat seafood and fresh, Mediterranean vegetables, and visit Lebanon and Jordan, and practise her massage and work with the essential oils she’d studied in evening classes.
As the water lapped against her pussy, Nathalie kept her eyes on the stars, the brightest of which she knew to be Venus. Was it Venus or Aphrodite guiding her today, she wondered, as she made the decision that would alter the course of her life? She applied more pressure to her clit now, imaging that a man, or indeed a woman, was lapping at her, feasting off her. A woman, she decided in her fantasy, with blonde hair and a pink, generous tongue. The woman’s fingers were sliding inside her, reaching for her g-spot, while her tongue kept up its rhythmic pace. Then the woman turned over, so that her pussy was above Nathalie’s own face, and Nathalie ate her hungrily, recognising something that had been missing in her life. Twelve years of marriage and fidelity, and no pussy. She really had missed it. In Cyprus, she decided, she could be whoever she wanted.
The thought of eating and being eaten herself was enough to tip Nathalie over the edge and she came, there under the night sky, not bothering to stifle her cries as she thrashed gently in the water.
Once her orgasm had subsided, Nathalie opened her eyes and flipped back over onto her stomach, realising that she was drifting out with the tide, towards Egypt, she presumed. The water was feeling cooler, and she started swimming back, a little more urgently now. A group of girls had gathered on the beach, five or six of them, probably having just stumbled out of a night club. As she got nearer, though, Nathalie heard raised voices speaking a language she didn’t recognise. Russian, perhaps, or something Slavic. Prostitutes, by the looks of them, with their overly short dresses and ludicrously high heels. Taking a break between clients, no doubt. They were getting closer to her towel and Nathalie felt a slight panic rise in her chest. Neither towel nor key were irreplaceable, but life would certainly be awkward without them.
There was a sudden skirmish, and one girl lunged at another, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back sharply. Their screams became angrier, and they attacked each other with their nails, jabbing claw-like at each other’s faces. Although Nathalie couldn’t understand what they were yelling, she could guess what it was about. One had strayed onto another’s patch, she imagined; she’d wandered a street too far, and stepped into alien territory.
They were lurching perilously close to her towel now, and as Nathalie glided towards them, careful to avoid being seen under the moonlight, two men in uniform appeared and set about breaking them up. Police or security guards, she couldn’t make out which. Nathalie could touch the sand with her toes now, as, keeping her face partly submerged, she watched the fray. Some of the other girls, no doubt remembering old squabbles and grievances, started getting involved now – a punch here, a slap there, a yank of the hair for good measure – but finally the men separated them, yelling out in a mixture of English and Greek.
As they escorted them towards the road, Nathalie emerged from the sea and darted towards her towel. Noticing the sudden movement, one of the men turned back to look at her, and for a second Nathalie froze, naked before him, before stooping to pick it up and cover herself.
What madness had gripped her today, she wondered as she made her way back to her room. She’d only taken a villa, after all, paying a year’s rent in advance with some of her divorce settlement. The income she’d get from letting the London place would more than cover her new life.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep. After twelve conservative years of management and marriage, Nathalie was becoming impulsive again. She’d almost forgotten what that felt like.
It was as if she was reborn.



Chapter One
Loukas Ioannou wasn’t convinced he’d get his van up the narrow lane, but just about made it, scraping its rear left wheel against a low wall. But that, he realised, had been the easy part; now he and Kristos would have to carry furniture the length of the nine house complex, negotiating a swimming pool and several oleander bushes along the way.
He stopped to mop his forehead - it was the second week of July, and the heat was stifling. How he longed to be at home, sitting under the shade of his olive tree, sipping a glass of ouzo as his wife Maria made supper - but that delight was many hours away yet. Who were all these foreigners who insisted on moving to the island during the hottest months of the year? Did they know nothing about Mediterranean life? He looked up irritably as a woman approached and felt his entire body jolt, for what a woman she was. Any resentment he’d borne lifted like leaves in a breeze, fluttering off in the distance. For she wasn’t just a woman - she was the woman - a goddess, born of some bountiful deity wishing to send beauty itself to this earth. Her hair was lustrous and chestnut coloured, cut in a bob that met her well-defined jaw, her eyes were almond-shaped and green and looked as if they could see into his very soul, her cheekbones were as high as the Troodos mountains and her lips as full as a waxing moon. Loukas’ breath caught in his chest.
‘I’m Nathalie,’ she told him, outstretching her hand.
Loukas introduced himself, clasping that softness in his own. What spell was he under now?
‘I’m in number nine; I’m sorry, it’s the furthest away.’ She looked concerned. ‘Can I get you some water?’
He shook his head. Would he ever speak again? Kristos had already opened the back of the van and was beginning to unload some boxes. Loukas went to join him, cursing himself for not having at least chosen a clean shirt that morning.
‘I’ll show you the lay of the land,’ Nathalie said with a skip that emphasised her trim figure and toned legs. She was wearing a white sleeveless shirt over beige shorts and had a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses perched on the top of her head. Such understated elegance, he marvelled. He was, indeed, in the presence of someone remarkable.
For a second, Loukas remembered himself and turned away to take in his surroundings. Maria liked full descriptions of any new housing estates in the area, and this one was more attractive than most. Called Fig Tree Villas , it was tucked away in the hills to the north of Paphos, the town situated the nearest to the birthplace of Aphrodite, for which the island was renowned. The houses were less than five years old, and had been built in the style of a haphazard Mediterranean village, with no two exactly the same, but each possessing a forceful personality of its own. As new estates went, this one had some style, he thought admiringly. But it was too discreet for his liking; like m