Gemini Heat (21 page)

He was eating her up, gobbling her with his gaze. They'd talked calmly together on the day after their night of wine-soaked sex and as far as Delia knew the air between them was clear.

But Peter's eyes now said otherwise; they were dark and stormy, the pupils huge and black with arousal. The strangest thing was that his stare seemed as much for her clothes as the body inside them. For several seconds Delia was puzzled by this, then the truth dawned.

Tonight was a sultry night in a silly season, and when she'd been preparing to go out, Delia had felt especially oppressed by it. She'd abandoned the chic two piece she'd picked out initially, and raided Deana's wardrobe instead. Amongst the haphazard jumble of garments, she'd found a nice, floaty T-shirt styled top and matching skirt which was surprisingly elegant for Deana. Its 'floppiness' had felt quite odd to Delia at first, but the fact it was so cool and light had made up for everything. As had the fact that Russell had hated it at first sight. He'd often criticised Deana for her vagabond, thrown-on look, and it had given Delia a special, spiteful buzz to turn up looking just like her sibling.

The trouble was she now looked far too much like her sister. The woman that poor Peter loved!

He flinched when she reached out to touch his arm and guide him into the flat. 'Whoah! It's me, Pete . . . Delia. I only wore Deana's frock because it's cooler.'

In the living room, he simply stood and stared at her, an expression of confusion and frustration on his quietly handsome face. After a minute, he shook his head, then took off his glasses and polished them nervously on the corner of his T-shirt.

'That's the first time in years I've got you mixed up,' he said quietly, settling his specs back on the bridge of his nose, and staring at her wanly through their lenses.

'Wishful thinking?' she enquired, trying not to sound tart. Nobody was with quite who they wanted to be tonight. . . except Deana.

'I'm not sure ... I don't know,' he answered uncertainly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 'I don't really know what I think since the other night.'

Lord have mercy, thought Delia despairingly. As if things aren't complicated enough!

Even so, she felt a small smug spark of pleasure. There'd never really been much in the way of rivalry between her and Deana up until now because they'd always gone for entirely dissimilar men. But Jake had changed all that. They were in competition now, and though she loved her sister not one bit less, Delia felt at a distinct disadvantage. Deana was wild, flamboyant and earthy, a far more obvious sex object than she was. So it was nice to know that Peter - suddenly so decidedly fanciable - liked
her
as much as he did Deana.

And more than 'liked'.

As discreetly as she could, Delia let her gaze drift lower and settle momentarily on his technicolour shorts. The eye-searing cloth was pushed out quite clearly at his groin . . .

Catching her look, Peter blushed, and it was a curiously touching sight. He coloured beautifully. 'Sorry,' he muttered, his fists flexing at his side as if he longed to clasp his hands to his crotch and hide the bulging evidence of his urges.

'There's no need to be.'

Delia felt an exhilarating wash of power. She was in control here; she could grant or deny this nice man's pleasure. She'd had her own sexual release tonight already, and now it was down to her entirely whether Peter - poor rampant Peter - got his.

Yet she didn't want to cheat him. Offer him a body which had already been 'used' somehow. In spite of his protestations about respecting her freedom and her choice of relationships, she sensed he'd be deeply offended to find her wet with another man's semen.

I suppose I could get a quick shower, she thought, then decided against it. With Peter the moment had to be grasped immediately. His natural caution and politeness would make him back off if there was the slightest hesitation on her part. She felt a sudden strong yen for that drink she'd been having and as her mouth watered for it, an answer to the dilemma appeared.

Feeling deeply female, she smiled at him. 'How about a drink?'

'Yes. Yes, please!' He smiled back at her, looking grateful and slightly less nervous.

'Right then, you sit down while I fetch you one. I'm on G and T, is that OK?'

'Wonderful! Fine!' He flopped awkwardly down, and as she picked up her own glass and slid from the room, hiding what she knew was a truly wicked grin, she heard him flicking through one of Deana's many magazines.

She was still grinning as she swigged down the last of her gin, then took a large mouthful of tonic, swooshed it around and swallowed. She'd no real personal experience of such matters - yet - but common sense told her that alcohol could well have a startling effect on the most sensitive areas of the human body. Particularly the male human body . . .

For a moment, she wished she could talk to Deana. Deana who had experience and daring. Deana who never had qualms or doubts about her sexual performance. Deana who'd probably done most things and all of them far more often than Delia had.

Hard on the heels of the wish came a curious, almost tingling revelation about its nature. Right now, with what she had in mind for Peter, she yearned for her sister's sexual skill. But only that. She wanted to be able to do what Deana could do, but not to
be
her. It was suddenly just fine to be Delia Ferraro about to make love to Peter; and not Deana Ferraro in the dark and deviant clutches of Jake de Guile. And that thought made her happy. She didn't have to strive and she didn't have to worry, she could just be herself and enjoy it. Smiling, she poured herself a fresh glass of tonic and made Peter a fierce G and T, then strode back boldly to the living room.

Peter had abandoned his magazine and was lying half slumped in his seat, his glasses off and his eyes closed as if weary.

Was he tired? Delia knew only too well how emotional upheavals could wear a person out. Her own sleep patterns were crazy now, when before, she'd always slept soundly for a consistent eight hours. Padding softly on her still-bare feet, she put the glasses silently down, and crept towards the drowsy man on her sofa. She fanned her skirts out as she sank down and knelt at his feet, and as the soft silk fell across his ankle, his eyes flew open in alarm.

He was short-sighted, she knew, but in that moment their gazes locked in a perfect incontestable communication. She made an offer and he acknowledged and accepted it.

'You don't have to do this,' he whispered, as if raised voices could fracture the spell.

'But I want to.' She laid her hands lightly on his exposed lower thighs and felt him tremble.

'Well, in that case . . . Oh God—' His voice faltered as she slid the fingertips of both hands up the loose legs of his shorts and reached for the treasures at this groin. 'Oh yes! Please! Do it!'

Deliberate and teasing, she withdrew her searching fingers and let them rest on his bare knees as if she were deciding what her next act should be. She could feel moisture on his skin, and goose flesh, the sort that came from great excitement, not fear. Strength and exhultation washed through her and she reached for the draw-string of his shorts.

The knot was slack and easily dealt with and in seconds she was grasping at his waistband and easing it downwards. Foraging beneath the gathered band, she hooked her fingers into his underpants too, then eased down both shorts and pants in a single crumpled bunch.

'Hup!' she urged softly, and like an obedient child, he lifted his bottom. With his hips still raised, she pulled his clothes right down to his ankles in a long bold yank, then suppressed a giggle at the stomach-slapping bounce of his cock as it swung and swayed like a jack-in-a-box. Its tip was wet and shiny and on the upswing it seemed to cling slightly to the gloss of sweat on his belly.

Sitting back onto her heels, she beheld a simple but magnificent sight. A naked penis, erect in its blind-eyed glory as it pointed its way to the stars . . .

It was funny how an act that had never been her favourite was suddenly a bewitching obsession. She'd never wanted to suck Russell's unimpressive and forgettable instrument, but the idea of man-meat in her mouth was now delectable.

Peter didn't have quite the elegant weapon that Jake did - the hard, pure blade of a twentieth-century samurai - but what he did have was no mean shaft. It was fine and sturdy, fat, and a good, long length, its moist rounded head a delicious temptation to the mouth. Even as she watched, another drop of pre-come oozed out.

Will he taste like Jake, she wondered, her attention winging back to the hot red room and the man who'd lain on the couch. Would Peter be neutral and salty too, or would he have an individual flavour of his own? There was only one way to find out.

Almost cross-eyed with concentration, Delia touched the thick veiny shank and made it wave to and fro. Peter gasped and gritted his teeth, his eyes shut tight again now, his lean face a mask of submission. Submission to her will. . .

Delia felt wild and unstoppable, crazy for experience and pleasure, but completely in control. Shuffling closer, she tugged away the constricting clothes from around his ankles, then edged apart his feet and eased them forward. Pressing down on his splayed-open knees, she brought his pelvis sliding towards her so that his cock reared up, perfectly presented to her mouth. He cried out like a child when she leaned in towards his body and took the tip of him in between her lips.

She was vaguely aware of him collapsing backwards, his head twisting this way and that, his throat bared and vulnerable. She imagined the sight to be fabulous -but her primary attention was lower. On the pale naked plains of his loins and thighs, and at the heart of the matter, his cock . . .

When she sucked him experimentally, he jerked in her mouth and squirmed his hips on the seat. It was almost as if the sensations were too much for him and he was trying to get away, but Delia refused to let go. He was her prize, her treat, her living lollipop and she was determined to have him. She curled the fingers of one hand around his shaft, and with the other hand she cradled his balls.

This cock was hers now, and she would have everything about it. She would take its heat and its hardness and she would drain it of its strength and sap. Every silk-smooth drop.

But not straight away, and not simply. This was a learning experience for her, an act to be taken slowly. She would savour it and memorise his every reaction. His every taste and texture. And even though she was only a student at this, she had no doubt in her mind that she already knew enough to enslave him. She could make this man, Peter, her creature with perfect ease. He'd be her grateful slave when she'd finished, to do with whatever she pleased.

It was an exquisite thought, as seductive and delightful as the taste of the flesh in her mouth. Salty stuff was flowing freely from the tiny little orifice in his glans, and as Delia sucked hard and instinctively to draw it out faster, Peter moaned like a man under torture. She felt his hands close around her head, his wrists and arms tense and shivering. He was fighting a driving urge, a need to grab at her hair for leverage and drive his cock into the depths of her throat. With her mouth chock-full of him, and her saliva flowing down across her chin, her mind seemed to be working with extraordinary clarity. She could feel the fight in him, feel him dying to thrust and pump and come, yet resisting it in case he made her choke.

He was sobbing now, crying and mewling out her name.
Her
name. 'Delia,' not 'Deana' or even 'Dee'. If she could've laughed with triumph, she would have done, but as it was she just swirled her tongue around his glans, tautened the fine skin of his cock with her fingers, then sucked at him till her ears popped and her eyes started watering with the effort.

Her reward was a long, broken shout that echoed eerily around the small room. He was one of the gentlest men she'd ever met but as he came, he gouged her tender scalp with his nails and filled her mouth with great bouts of his thick, hot semen. Spurt after spurt of it flooded her throat and within seconds she was struggling to swallow. Gulping, she tried hard to listen as well. And to understand the demented ram-blings of a lover she'd driven crazy with her lips.

His chest was heaving, he was panting and gasping, but somewhere in the raving babble of his orgasm, Delia could've sworn she'd heard him tell her he loved her . . .

Men will say anything when they're coming, she thought as she let him slip out. Any old rubbish at all, she observed fondly as she kissed his red shiny tip.

She kissed his thighs, she kissed the dark, fuzzy floss at his groin, then unable to resist, she pressed another kiss to his soft, sticky penis.

But when she started to lick it, she felt his hand come alive amongst her hair. Moving more gently this time, he caressed her scalp, each tender stroke an echo of the flickings of her tongue.

'I love you, Delia,' he murmured as she adjusted her position and closed her fingertips very lightly on his balls.

Any old rubbish, she thought dreamily . . . then sucked.

'You look superb, Dee,' observed Jake laconically as Deana settled down in the limousine beside him. Her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised he didn't tell her he could see it. She was trying to project an attitude of cool, but she didn't think much of her chances . . . Inside she'd never felt hotter.