Gemini Heat (12 page)

'Are you all right?' She reached up to touch his mouth, then felt a spark of unlooked-for excitement. He'd sucked in her fingertip quite naturally and started nibbling it. His lips felt cool, and his tongue was moist and caressing.

'Yes,' he answered muffledly, then continued his tasting by biting each digit in turn. 'I'm very all right . . . How about you?'

'Yes . . . You've got the most wonderful hands, do you know that?' she burst out, without thinking.

'So have you,' he said, nipping at the cushioning flesh at the base of her thumb and causing a ripple of response in her quim. Suddenly she was desperate to have him in her. She wriggled her sweaty body against him, blatantly inviting him to penetrate her.

'Oh Dee,' he sighed, moving over her. His body felt unexpectedly large and strong for a man so slender and whippy. As his penis nudged its way into her damp eager furrow, she looked down the length of his narrow white back and for a second imagined it brown and exotic.

But as Peter the living man slid into her, Jake the fantasy slid away, forgotten. She still didn't know who
she
was to the man inside her, but he was just Peter, and wonderful. His cock was solid and satisfying, his thrusts long and even. There was a wonderful quality of stability about him.

He'll last, she thought happily. She'd have all the orgasms she needed and there wouldn't be that embarrassing far-too-soon finish that she sometimes experienced with Russell.

Her tender, loving Peter might look like a skinny sprinter, but as he settled into a smooth easy rhythm, she realised to her joy he was a stayer. A long-distance man.

And
that
thought was enough to make it all happen again. She orgasmed deep and hard and sweetly from simply the prospect of rapture. The knowing, the certainty of pleasure . . .

Panting and squirming, she angled her hips and coiled her legs round his back to intensify the glorious sensation. Her clitoris knocked hard against his pubic bone and the stiff sliding root of his penis. And as she moaned under the mind-bending impacts, she felt him shifting his body above her. Moving his weight with a neat sure grace to make their contact even closer and better . . .

He was asleep when she left, and she wondered fleet-ingly which, twin it was he was dreaming of. Whichever, she'd made him smile.

Padding soundlessly down the stairs, Delia realised that she too was smiling.

Who'd have thought it? Peter! A soft-spoken super-lover right on her doorstep. For several delicious, orgasmic hours he'd almost driven Jake from her mind. Almost . . .

As she let herself into her own flat, the gloomy brooding warmth brought thoughts of Jake flooding back in. Thoughts, and speculations.

What had he done with Deana tonight? Or done to her? What wild new pleasures would they have tasted together? What positions? What perversions?

Delia was tempted to go straight to bed and try and forget everybody. Jake. Peter. Russell. Deana. Life and sex were suddenly so complicated, and it'd be oh-so-much easier just to cover her head with her pillow and temporarily ignore the lot of it. But common sense and the beginnings of a headache said otherwise. If she didn't take in fluid now, and lots of it, she'd be digging her grave for the morning. She'd had a gooseberry wine hangover once . . . and there was no way she could bear having another!

After two glasses of water, the character of her thirst seemed to change. She got a sudden sharp yen for herbal tea, but when she came to switch on the kettle she found it already filled and the water not far from boiling.

Dunking her tea-bag quickly, she took her mug and padded towards the lounge, in search of her sister.

Deana was sitting in the dark.

A cold hand clutched Delia's belly. What was wrong? Deana loved brilliance and light, why was she skulking in shadows?

Delia's fears turned to anger, furious white anger, when she turned on the lamp and saw the state of her twin's face and body.

Deana looked as if she'd been dragged sideways through a hurricane! The pretty coiled hair-do they'd worked on so carefully was a tangled tumbling mess. Her lipstick was smeared across her face like cherry juice. And strands of half-detached sequins were dripping from her glamorous bustier. Her sheer dark stocking a striped mass of creamy creeping ladders.

'The bastard! He's raped you! The absolute, shitty bastard!'

Delia was wracked by a sudden almost painful guilt. This was
her
fault. She'd let her foolhardy, sexually brave sister get hurt and degraded. The turn of a coin was pure chance, she knew it, but somehow she still felt that she was to blame. That she was the one who should be sitting there battered and dishevelled . . . and perhaps hiding worse beneath her skirt.

'He didn't actually.'

Something in her sister's voice made Delia look more closely.

Deana was cradling a cup of tea of her own, but over the top of it she was smiling. A smile that Delia had often seen before. A slow, silky, sexy, self-satisfied grin that she'd never been able to replicate - even though she had the exact same face to do it with.

'Oh . . .'

'Yes . . . Oh.'

'So, what happened?' she quizzed. 'Something must've . . . You look as if you've been molested by a gang of sex-starved navvies!'

'Well, I suppose he was hungry.'

Deana's words were dreamy and cryptic, a match for the smile itself. She ran a fingernail down one of her ladders, and the pale streak widened and lengthened. 'But he made himself that way.'

'What do you mean?'

'Brace yourself, Sis.' The smile was naughty now. And it got naughtier and naughtier as softly, calmly and in very great detail, Deana described her evening.

Delia went hot, cold, and then hot again. Very hot. She thought she'd experienced wildness with Jake, but what Deana described was insane. A deranged dark dream that turned on both teller and listener.

Masturbation. Exposure. Fetish clubs. Lesbians. Being made to come in public. Being shown, intimately, to servants. It was all so extreme. So much heavier, deeper and more deviant than her own slight thrills. What had happened in Jake's office was tame to him. Almost a norm . . .

Suddenly, a stark fact surfaced. She too was 'Dee'.

'But I can't do all that!' she cried, her panic rising.

'Yes, you can, love,' said Deana softly. 'In a way, you already have. It isn't just a face we share. You know that, don't you? Deep down . . .'

Delia had a great yearning for a glass of Peter's wine.

Herbal tea couldn't settle all this . . . Because Deana was right.

Their pleasures had been different tonight but the craving for sex was the same. Deana had found what she wanted elsewhere. Out on the sharp edge of daring. But she, Delia, had found an equal comfort at home. The colours of experience were different but the conclusion was ultimately the same.

'And anyway . . .' Deana was studying her intently now, 'what have
you
been up to while I've been out?' Her artist's all-seeing eyes had obviously noticed something. Some change that Delia wasn't aware of. 'You've got a look you never get with Russell. You look as if you've had quite a seeing to.'

Oh no, if she told Deana about Peter, she'd also have to tell her who he loved!

'You sly witch,' said Deana, her face wreathed in smiles. 'You and Peter. Well well well, I never would've guessed. Does Russ the Wuss know?' Her eyes narrowed, turned ever-so-slightly calculating. 'Does this mean I've got Jake to myself?'

'No, it doesn't!' Delia felt wild and panicky, her body and her senses rebelling. It was crazy. Not like her at all. But what her sister had just recounted had made her want Jake more than ever.

'There is no "me and Peter",' she went on, trying hard to sound reasonable and calm. 'And there's no "me and Russell" any more either.'

Deana looked genuinely delighted and opened her mouth to speak. But before the inevitable questions, Delia cut in again.

'The Gemini Game's still on, Deana,' she said, her voice soft but steely, 'and it's my turn next. So you'd better let me know when that is . . .'

Chapter Six

One Man's Geisha

D
eana hadn't known when or where. It was Delia who found out herself, two days later, when she walked into her office and sat down. There was a blue envelope in the exact centre of her blotter, and beneath it lay a slim leather folder, also blue. Frowning, she slit open the envelope with her fingernail and eased out its meager contents. A single sheet of very fine grade sky-blue writing paper.

Dee,
began the message in a firm black script,
I'm back. I'll send the car tonight at eight. Be ready, the way you were last time, but dress casually. Dress to be undressed.
It was unsigned.

When she'd read the note, an impulse made her lift it to her face and sniff. It was usually only women who scented their letters, but this particular correspondent was a blatant and unashamed rule-breaker.

Delia smiled. She'd been right, that lovely floral smell of his
was
there, the paper was heavy with it. As she inhaled deeply to draw in the fragrance, a bouquet of lush memories assailed her. Her own and Deana's . . . A tell-tale heat rose spontaneousely to her face as she thought of what her sister had told her.

It had been a lurid account, but lyrical. And those graphic details, plus sex in general, had been occupying

most of Delia's mind-space for the last two boiling hot

days.

And it wasn't just 'Jake and sex' either. There was Peter too. It still seemed something of a marvel to her that their mild-mannered neighbour could turn into a sexual Superman. She wondered how much the wine had to do with it. Would he be just as dynamic sober? Would she, for that matter?

Well done, Delia, she congratulated herself, sighing. Now you've got another 'situation' on your hands. Not content with having to break - gracefully - with Russell whilst playing this mad game with Jake and Deana . . . you've now managed to get yourself involved with
another
man!

But would it stop at three?

Since that first morning in Jake's office, she'd found herself checking out all sorts of men. Male colleagues she'd never looked twice at. The boy who brought in the sandwiches. Stray men in the street and in shops. Almost before she realised what she was doing, she'd assess their faces and bodies, then wonder what they'd look like naked. Within seconds she'd have them mentally in bed. Her body would rouse as she imagined each man's performance. It was shocking and right out of character, but she had a distinct feeling that her sex drive had changed forever. A valve in her body had opened and her hormones were pouring out unchecked. She felt flooded with a wild erotic input, her libido limitless and surging.

And now this!

Putting aside the letter, she flipped open the leather folder. Ranged in two neat ranks were a dozen or so credit cards, all made out in her name. A set of computer-printed slips informed her that she now had unlimited credit in places she'd only ever dreamed of shopping. Another of Jake's notes said why.

For your hundred tops.

It puzzled her at first, but then she remembered Deana and the shredded bustier.

The swine! He thinks he can buy us!

Delia felt dizzy with a mix of emotions. Outrage vied with arousal. Insulted proprieties were underminded by a luscious sense of decadence. She had a sudden, thrilling awareness of how it would feel to be a courtesan. A kept woman showered with exclusive gifts in return for the use of her body. She slid out a card and eyed a world famous logo, then unfolded the letter again.

Dress to be undressed
it said.

As she studied the stark, black symbols, Delia felt that sly dark pull again. The lure of immorality. Suddenly it all seemed so logical . . .

If Jake was the one who took the clothes off, he was the one who should pay for them. Why not?

In the end, she wore her own clothes. Or more correctly, hers and Deana's.

The soft, loose shirt in wild pink silk was one of her favourites; and the skin-tight black lycra leggings were Deana's. Delia had originally picked out a pair of dark, tailored trousers, but Deana had discarded them. Everything about this escapade was both sexy and daring, she'd pointed out. It was up to them to dress the part.
Both
of them.

Out in the drive, at eight o'clock, the car cruised its way to a halt. Inside their flat, the sisters kissed and hugged, then one stepped out onto the porch while the other slid back into the shadows.

Delia found the blond chauffeur chilling. His face was a blank, handsome mask and his haircut shaved and brutal. So this was the infamous Fargo, she thought. The hard man. She watched his approach warily, then pictured him toting a sub-machine gun in a mercenary army. It was difficult to imagine him being interested in sex at all. He seemed too ascetic for arousal.

'Good evening, ma'am.' Fargo's voice was as gravelly as his face suggested, but his demeanour was exquisitely respectful. As he helped her into the limousine,