Gemini Heat (6 page)

But then another voice spoke up. A louder voice. The voice of her senses and her dreams. The voice of her yearning sex.

He's mine! it cried. He's mine, Deana, and you've stolen him! Goddamn you, sister, he's mine and I want him back!

It wasn't sensible and it wasn't rational. But as de Guile's clever fingers flicked open her jacket buttons, Delia's own hands rose up to help him.

Sanity made one last rally, 'Mr de Guile, please,' she panted as he pulled open the dark lapels of her suit and exposed her lace-encased breasts.

'"Jake" ... I told you, it's "Jake",' he said, locking his navy blue eyes with her pleading grey ones. He cupped her breasts and kneaded them with a roughness that made her gasp but was exactly what she wanted. 'My God, Dee, you're lovely! I had to leave last night, but I wanted to stay. I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought about was your body. I had to touch myself because I couldn't touch you! I brought myself off imagining how your breasts would feel and look when I made them naked. Remembering what it felt like to slide myself into your luscious flesh. How wet and hot and ready you were. I went crazy wondering how you'd taste ... Do you realise something, Dee? I haven't even kissed you yet.'

All this was whispered against her cheek, the instant before he inclined her face towards him and word became deed.

Without conscious thought, Delia opened her lips beneath his for that first sweet foray into her mouth. His tongue was cool, moist and flexible inside her hot wetness, and she met it immediately and boldly. As their mouths duelled, she let her mind run ahead, imagining the taste of his skin and his sex. She imagined every intimate flavour and texture of his body, then felt his hands - both of them - take an imperious hold of her jacket lapels and slide the garment down off her.

Pinioned like a slave-girl, her arms were caught against her sides while her throat, her shoulders and her breasts were his to command. Somewhere in her fantasy, his tongue pushed in deeper and subdued hers - while his fingers took possession of her breasts. Delicately, almost tentatively, he pinched her nipples and rolled them this way and that. An exquisite tugging pressure shot straight to the tip of her clitoris and as he pulled at her sensitised teats, her vulva throbbed out its answer. The flesh down there was so excited she almost climaxed without contact.

She wanted to cry out his name, call him 'Your Highness', 'My Liege' and a million other fantasy titles but her mouth was stuffed with his tongue. Pushing her body towards him, she offered him her breasts more freely.

Her offer was instantly taken. With the deftness of great experience, he flicked down the spaghetti straps of her camisole top and exposed her. Delia gasped then, aware of the preposterousness of what was happening to her. They were sitting before a blind-less window in broad daylight; this office was unlocked and open to any intrusion; a secretary or typist could walk in at any second . . . and she was being kissed and her breasts were naked.

'But Mr de Guile,' she murmured against his mouth, her own vulnerability thrilling her.
He
was still fully and immaculately dressed while she was bared to the waist, her arms virtually immobilised by her own bunched-up clothing.

'My name is "Jake"/ he said, swooping down and putting his lips to one swollen breast, "Jake",' he repeated, taking the nipple between his straight white teeth and biting it ever-so-gently.

Delia's hips bucked towards him, the movement involuntary, her whole sex shimmering with soft, wet tremors of yearning. She wanted fingers down there, touching and pressing. A tongue licking ... A cock pushing and stretching . . . Anything. Anything of his, there between her legs to assuage her roaring hunger. And as he chewed delicately on her stiff, sensitive nipple, she moaned and wriggled, her bottom sliding helplessly on the leather of the sofa.

'Patience.' His breath fanned her breast. 'We won't be disturbed. There's plenty of time. And there's so much I want to do to you.' He shifted his mouth to her other nipple, first sucking, then blowing, using his tongue to anoint the dimpled aureole with saliva, then flick at the peak itself.

The pleasure was very precisely granted, very carefully measured; an exercise in building arousal and raising it to a new and as yet unachieved height. Until now, Delia had always coasted during sex, accepting stimulation as it arrived. She'd never thirsted and craved as she did now; never needed a man's touch so desperately that she thought she might die if she didn't get it. Needed it like a junkie needed dope . . . Never before had her breasts and vulva ached like fire, gnawed from within because she wanted every sexual part of her to be caressed and sucked and fondled all at once and as roughly and savagely as possible.

With a final sequence of long cat-like tongue strokes, de Guile made both her breasts wet all over, then lifted his head and reached out to take hold of her hands.

'Hold yourself, Dee,' he ordered quietly, shaping her fingers with his, and fitting them around her own body. She felt uncomfortable, and hindered by the tangled jacket, but still she obeyed him. Her own engorgement was warm against her palms, and she felt his spittle as a thin moist film. As he closed her fingers and thumbs around her own teats, she gasped, then whimpered. Below, her body was already betraying her . . .

He'd made her come. Brought her to climax. He'd touched only her breasts, and yet she'd had an exquisite orgasm. Floating half-way between fantasy and the heat of the city, she surrendered to a cresting wave of pulsating sensation and heard a cry bubble helplessly from her lips. She squeezed hard on her own nipples and sobbed: then heard de Guile - who was suddenly and utterly 'Jake' - laugh archly as she squirmed before him.

'I knew you'd be like this,' he said, sliding neatly from the couch and dropping down to kneel at her feet. 'When I first saw your picture in the files. Your eyes . . . I knew you'd come easily for me. That you'd be beautiful and melt and flow with the slightest of handling. I knew when we met that you'd
perform
for me.'

Delia - who'd never performed or come easily in her life - was desperate to touch her quim. It was fluttering and beating like a second heart. It was crying out to be fingered and stroked. But she felt paralysed. Only Jake could give her leave to caress herself.

When was it that he'd taken control of her? The exact moment eluded her but suddenly he
was
her master. The Prince, alive in the city and complete in the sovereignty of his title; and in the power to give her effortless pleasure.

Slumped back, eyes closed, her breasts still held in her hands, she sensed him shift his weight slightly, then felt his fingers on the hem of her skirt. Without the slightest hesitation, he pushed the slim tube swiftly up her thighs and shuffled it over her hips, using the thin satin lining as a slider. Delia lifted her bottom off the seat automatically, and within moments she was as displayed below as she was above - with everything that should've covered her bunched crudely in a bundle at her waist.

She didn't dare look down, knowing that the thin silk crotch of her camiknickers was twisted and lodged between her labia. She could feel the empty air warm against her exposed pubic floss and the long bare expanse of her thighs - and only a narrow sliver of sheer yellow fabric kept her sex from his compelling blue gaze.

'Sublime . . .'

For a few seconds Delia's shivers had nothing to do with sex. He'd said it. Said the dream-word. Blue eyes or not, he'd come straight from her fantasy, and her near-naked body was dying for him.

Moving purely on instinct, she undulated her pelvis before him, wafting it and lifting it like an Egyptian belly dancer. It was the lewdest thing she'd ever done but there was no way now she could stop herself.

'Sublime,' he murmured again, his touching fingers tender on the inner slope of her thigh.

She shuddered again when he plucked at the worked-in strip of silk, then dragged it rhythmically back and forth against the swollen tip of her clitoris. The sodden cloth clung wickedly to her flesh, dragging on her most sensitive membranes, and Delia felt a hot, wet flush. Her thighs scissored wildly as she came again, but almost before it had begun, she felt Jake push his fingers between her sex-lips and ease out the thin piece of fabric. There was a sensation of pulling and tugging, then he was folding up the two detached halves of the gusset and baring her shining folds to his view.

'Agh! Oh God!' She grunted low but loud as a finger pushed into her vagina. He did it with ineffable gentleness but it was still a violation, a delicious shaming rudeness. The very core of her speared on a stranger's slim digit.

His face was so close to her now that she could feel his breath on her moistness. 'Relax, Dee,' he whispered, 'let me in.' A second finger slid in beside the first and their combined thickness swivelled inside her.

'Oh, Jake, please!' she sobbed, aware that she'd used his given name for the first time. She didn't quite know what she was pleading for, but even as she did, her clitoris leapt in the empty air. It felt bigger and more blood-filled now than she could ever remember, and seemed to beg, mutely, to be masturbated. Opening her eyes at last, fighting what felt like hugely weighted eyelids, she looked down at the man crouched lithely between her thighs.

His concentration on her sex was somehow almost religious, and in spite of her distractions, she found a moment of lucidity to admire him, and marvel at his densely black, perfectly groomed hair.

She'd never seen hair before that lay so thick and straight and vital against the head. At first she thought it was gelled, but when she reached out - awkwardly -to touch him, she found only silkiness and the lush soft tactility of a healthy animal's coat. Feeling her fingers upon him, he glanced up for a second, and the narrow feline gleam of his smile only served to reinforce the impression. He
was
an animal. A beautiful, hard-glossed prey-seeker, a clever gentle woman-eater who was there between her bare legs to feed.

She could no longer close her eyes now. Rapt, she watched him smile again, then put out his long pink tongue and lower his face to her crotch. She sobbed as she felt a soft, wet touch connect divinely with her quivering clitoris and nudge the tiny nub of flesh into another almost heart-stopping orgasm. Her sobs turned to broken, mewling screams as he flapped his tongue rapidly against her, piling on the glorious stimulation when she'd already had as much as she could bear. Even so, her naked loins rose up again to meet him, and as best she could in her makeshift bonds, she grabbed hold of his dark, elegant head and pulled his cool face closer to her sex.

Suddenly it was all too much. At least far more than Delia was used to. Still deep in orgasm, she felt a great, soft blackness engulf her and sweet oblivion descend to save her sanity.

But just at the very last second before she drifted away, she felt her name, 'Dee' whispered right around her still-throbbing clitoris . . .

As Delia woke up, she remembered a dream. A voluptuous, impressionist dream in which the Prince had given her ultimate pleasure. With mirror-like clarity, she recalled his fingers on her flesh, and then his mouth there too. These acts were as sharp and true in her mind as anything that had ever happened to her, but there were other erotic fragments that were less so.

She seemed to remember his hand upon her ankle, caressing it and raising it up, stretching her thighs into a open arc that tautened and displayed her sex. She remembered his lips kissing her foot, his hands sliding up and down her leg, then his fingertips opening up her labia like the petals of an orchid.

There'd been the rustle of clothing then, she seemed to remember, and immediately after, a steady, probing pressure against the entrance of her vagina.

With that came a long and very male sigh and the invasion of an erect penis into her body.

But that seemed to be all she could remember.

Sitting up cautiously on the deep-cushioned leather settee, Delia ran her fingers down the seam of her skirt. Then frowned.

She checked the neckline, and the snugly fastened buttons of her jacket, and frowned again.

Had it happened or hadn't it? She was most definitely in Jackson de Guile's acre-sized office, but as to what had occurred in the last half-hour or so, she couldn't truthfully be certain. Glancing towards the huge executive desk at the far end of the room, she ascertained that at least the man himself was no dream. He was talking quietly into a slim portable phone, and although from the tenor of his conversation he seemed to be engaged in some fairly important negotiation or other, he was smiling in
her
direction. Even as she watched him, he winked roguishly and blew her a fingertip kiss.

Dear heaven, it
had
happened. At least some of it. . .

Yet, unaccountably, she was dressed again: covered up, buttoned up, and even - she discovered when she shifted her thighs experimentally against each other -poppered up. She was primly and properly clothed, but had no recollection of getting that way herself!

De Guile - or Jake, she supposed she should call him now - appeared superbly cool and unruffled. If he
had
actually made love to her, outwardly he showed no sign of it. Snapping his slim phone closed, he slid to his feet and walked soundlessly across the carpet towards her, as immaculate as a GQ model and ten times as smooth and glamorous.