Gemini Heat (4 page)

Her legs weak, she turned towards Jake. He was leaning with his back against the parapet, his leather trousers still unzipped, his soft, gleaming cock still exposed. Seeing it for the first time, Deana blushed irrationally, then grabbed for her shoulder bag that had long since fallen to the floor. The swish of her skirts, as she straightened up, seemed to wake him from a postcoital stupor, but he said not a word, his thin, conqueror's smile bringing home the full enormity of what she'd just allowed to happen.

God, I must be mad! I've let myself be used by a total stranger for a moment's satisfaction . . . I'm a whore. A slut. A pick-up. And an easy, available screw.

'Excuse me . . . Please . . . I'm sorry,' she babbled, wondering what on earth she was apologising for as she virtually ran along the balcony towards the stairs. She was searching for a sanctuary from Jake's sated and mocking smile, but she knew there was no such haven. Nowhere to hide from the bare reality of a penis still wet with her juices.

It took some time to tidy herself up.

Jake's essence slid out of her as fast as she could wipe herself, and in the end she crumpled her ruined G-string into a ball and took comfort that her long full skirt would hide the evidence of her sins: her wet, pulpy quim, her swollen labia and the semen drying stickily on her thighs.

Deana didn't usually need much make-up, but what she had put on tonight had been ruined. Her mascara was all over her cheeks and she'd chewed off her last scrap of lipstick. Taking more time than she actually needed, she reapplied everything, working slowly and meticulously to delay the moment when she'd have to leave this opulent bolthole and face the man who'd possessed her.

But when she did finally emerge, he wasn't there to be faced.

As discreetly as she could, she searched the balcony, the corridors, and the main body of the gallery. A couple of times she imagined she saw him - a lean sleek figure in black silk and leather - but it was just as much an illusion as the exhibits themselves were.

The bastard, she thought, hating him as passionately as she'd enjoyed his hard, dark body. He's gone . . . He's had me and now he's buggered off and left me!

Bereft of it's most truly erotic component, the gallery full of dirty pictures had suddenly lost all its charm. Wine was still being served, but Deana felt repelled by even the thought of drinking. Rolling up her catalogue, she made her way slowly out into the hot night air.

As she stood on the pavement, debating between a taxi and the Tube, a strange and perplexing thought occurred to her . . .

Somewhere in this crazy, boiling city was a man called Jake who'd made love to her. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering the orgasms and the pleasure, and realised that not once during the whole insane experience had he put his mouth against hers and kissed her.

Chapter Two

A Prince in the City

I'
'
'm being possessed by the Devil, I must be! thought

Delia Ferraro in the darkness.

Behind her tightly closed eyes she saw a handsome, yet indistinct face, the long bronzed column of a man's strong body, and - as it loomed above her - the beauty of his full, naked sex.

Soundlessly, like the dream of perfection he was, the man slid in between her wide open thighs, found the tropical place that wanted him, then thrust deeply and surely inside her. To the hilt. The bulk of his flesh was considerable and he stretched her, but with a broken sigh of pleasure, she lifted up her hips to encourage him.

Don't speak! Oh, please, my Prince, don't speak! she begged him silently as he started to move. Her body was quickening, soaring up the slope towards orgasm, but as the elusive silvery heaviness formed around his sliding organ, she knew that any second it could be snatched away from her. Dissolved by words. Her need to climax was like a rage in her flesh, but it was delicate and friable too. If her lover spoke, her pleasure could be torn clean away, dismantled, destroyed. She'd be high and dry, left hanging - unmoved.

But the spirits smiled, just as they'd done last night, and the inner image of her gorgeous dark Prince, stayed clear and strong and true. And for the second time in a row, the amalgam of her own mind and physical reality obeyed her. The toiling man above her groaned and gasped and moaned, but didn't speak. He murmured with satisfaction as he worked in deeper, but mercifully the sounds remained guttural.

Two grabbing hands held her bottom in a spasmic grip, and as the pace of thrusting increased, Delia felt a moment of pure panic. She wasn't quite ready. It was too soon. The Prince's face faded to a featureless blank and the curtained harem of her fantasy wavered and grew faint.

No! Not now! Don't leave, she begged, aware on a more cognisant level that she was pleading with her own imagination. Wriggling in her lover's hold, she pushed her fingers down between her sweating body and his and sought out the cleft of her labia. There was a grunt of disapproval in her ear, but Delia ignored it. With a giant effort of will she summoned her sweet dark secret fantasy to her bosom, then pressed hard on her own throbbing clitoris - pounding at the tiny wet bead with a ferocity that made her corporeal partner redundant.

As her fevered flesh leapt she made a small sound of relief, and in her mind, the finger in her furrow became the Prince's. After a couple of seconds, it turned magically into his tongue, pointed and moist, flickering and dancing for her pleasure.

The pictures she saw were clear and unbearably sweet. Before they'd been simple interior visuals, but now their texture was totally integrated. She could hear words now, but they were coming from within. 'Sublime' a soft voice purred, and on the screen behind her eyes she got a micro-second flash of her dark lord's face. It was the first time she'd seen it so clearly, and the image was so erotic that she almost climaxed. It was gone again before her pleasure-soaked senses could imprint it though, leaving only an impression in its wake: a fancy, a memory, one of her sister's sketches . . . and crazily, an odour. An intoxicating blend of heavy blooming flowers that came not from the room she was lying in but from the harem of her mind and her dreams.

And as orgasm drafted through her, her last sense gave up its gift. Clamping her knuckle in her teeth to keep in her screams, she tasted not her own hot skin, but the unmistakable flavour of man - the pungent tang of stiff sexual flesh and the fluids that leaked and flowed from it.

For one instant, as she came, she could have sworn that she'd tasted the Prince.

Russell hadn't liked it. He hadn't liked it one bit. And as Delia stood in the shower, sluicing her body with water and still feeling hot, she realised that a lot of her heat came from anger.

What on earth was wrong with him? Most men went wild for enthusiasm in bed, but not her Mister Prissy Russell. He only seemed to like it when she was passive. In the beginning it hadn't been a problem; they'd seemed so well-suited in other ways that the less than glorious sex hadn't been high on their agenda.

But sometime in the last few weeks, Delia had changed. Or her libido had. She couldn't pin down the beginning of this metamorphosis, but all she knew was that now she wanted good sex and lots of it. She wanted orgasms aplenty. She wanted exciting, active bed-play and all the noise and histrionics that went with it, and every dreary uninspiring event she shared with Russell only made her crave mayhem even more.

She'd sought the advice of her sister, of course. Deana was fifteen minutes younger but several millenia ahead in sexual experience, and she had given two simple pieces of advice. The first was a blunt 'chuck the miserable bastard!' - a drastic measure that Delia was rapidly beginning to consider. The second was that Delia should fantastise more, both in bed and out of it.

She'd embraced this idea immediately. Hence the arrival of the 'Prince'.

He was a classic stereotype, she realised, but he worked so well for her that she didn't worry about it. Her macho cliche of sexual fantasy could inject far more thrills into her than Russell's real life penis had ever done. The Prince was tall, dark, undefined male-ness: lean-bodied, large-sexed, phantasmagorical yet strangely real when she opened her mind to him. Following Deana's instructions, she thought about him before sex, during sex, and after sex . . . and at a lot of other times in between. She'd never once - except for that one split second this morning - seen his face, but she knew every last nuance of his erotic
modus operandi.

The Prince liked a noisy orgasmic response and went out of his way to evoke it. He used his hands and mouth on her body and sex for hours and hours and hours before even suggesting he penetrate her. The time dynamics of fantasy were conveniently accommodating, however, and this delicious preparation could be miraculously compressed into the few minutes it took Russell to get through his usual in-out-shake-it-all-about.

And that's what'd happened this morning - in the degrading quickie that Russell had unexpectedly wheedled out of her before work. He'd muttered something about 'giving her oats for her birthday' and to keep the peace she'd succumbed, then reached out for her fantasy.

Tripping on her new-found drug, Delia had had the Prince in bed with her, the Prince sliding like a god into the hot, slick depths of her vagina; and she'd cried out, made a fuss, and had a huge, mind-bendingly toe-curling orgasm.

But she'd got the cold shoulder afterwards and that had made her angry, so angry. She'd had sex when -initially - she hadn't wanted to. She'd made herself late for work at a time when punctuality and super-efficiency were crucial, and all the thanks she'd got was a fit of the sulks.

Oh God, this was no good! Anger at Russell was rebounding inside her in the strangest of ways. She felt aroused again. Hot. With no conscious effort, she summoned the Prince again and bade him share her steamy shower. The weather was crazy for May, and even though it was only seven-thirty in the morning she could feel herself sweating into the water. It felt like she was melting from the bones outward, softening in the heat, both within and without. Her whole body felt loose and malleable, the only areas of tension were the places where the Prince was sovereign: her aching nipples and the heavy, puffed up place between her legs. With a moan of resignation, she reached down to touch herself. She'd be late anyway, so she might as well be hung for a sheep etc. etc. As her sticky sex yielded open its flower, she received a small malicious pang of extra pleasure. If she stayed in the shower masturbating, she'd make Russell late too.

It's just you and me, my Liege, she murmured, bowing open her thighs, and letting the Prince lend magic to her own long fingers. As she stroked lightly at her clitoris, it was his gracious hand that stirred her, his dexterity that took the breath from her body and all shred of reason from her mind. She leaned hard against the streaming shower wall, pressing her breasts and belly to its sheeny surface, then tilting her hips to jam her fingers in harder between her legs. She could no longer believe it was her own hand moving at her crotch; the vulnerable flesh itself said it was the Prince's long, bronzed body she was shimmying against, his strong chest that stimulated her nipples, and his swollen penis that was pushing between her sex-lips and rubbing her.

Surging against the ineffectual coolness of the tiles, she summoned up his final fabulous outrage. With her tender bud still caught between her fingertips, and her breasts still flattened and crushed, she curved her free hand around between the cheeks of her bottom. In her glorious eastern dream, the Prince fell to his knees behind her and began sucking voraciously at her anus. As she feathered the tiny aperture, it was her dark invader that licked and pushed and stabbed with his tongue, boring it inside her as if intending to meet and mate with the pleasure in her pulsing clitoris.

'Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,' she whispered, water running into her mouth as she slid in a heap down the wall, her fingers still working, working, working . . .

Delia was later than she'd feared. Late, out of sorts and feeling far less than immaculate on a day when she should've looked faultless.

As she'd steered her car through the morning rush-hour traffic, she'd felt grubby already in spite of her extended shower. The fact that she'd been dragged out of a clandestine afterglow by a peevish Russell had only added insult to injury. Finishing with him was an unpleasant task to be faced, but as she finally negotiated the lifts and corridors of the de Guile Tower, it slipped in her league of pending problems. Top of the list was the fact that due to Russell and his 'birthday dinner' she was wearing the same work clothes as yesterday. Obsessive about a daisy-fresh outfit each day, this had never happened to Delia before. She wished to God now that she'd put her foot down last night and gone to the art exhibition as she'd intended. Or at least insisted on going home after sex!

On any other day, she would've nipped out mid-morning and gone home to change. But today wasn't just any day. The big boss was in residence. The boss of all bosses, visiting his UK holdings. Jackson K. de Guile - the 'de Guile' in de Guile International and the de Guile Tower. Even now, he could be perusing her personnel file in his penthouse office - the near-mythic eyrie that sat atop the imposing structure in which Delia worked. Her own office was several dozen floors below, but she could be summoned skywards at any moment.

'Random informal interviews of key personnel' was the word on the grapevine and Murphy's law predicted that Delia Ferraro, Divisional Administration Manager, be called in just when she was wearing yesterday's suit, no tights and some distinctly uneasy-making underwear. Taking a grateful swig of the coffee her secretary had ready for her, she dove straight for the women's rest room as soon as she arrived on her floor.