Gemini Heat Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Portia Da Costa

  Title page

  Dedication

  1 The Art Lovers

  2 A Prince in the City

  3 The Gemini Game

  4 ‘Seventeen’

  5 Home Comforts

  6 One Man’s Geisha

  7 The Throne Room

  8 Samurai Dreams

  9 Comings and Goings

  10 Sweet Mistry

  11 Come into my Jacuzzi …

  12 Propositions

  13 The Gemini Choice

  Copyright

  About the Book

  As the metropolis sizzles in the freak early summer temperatures, identical twin sisters Deana and Delia Ferraro are cooking up a heatwave of their own. Surrounded by an atmosphere of relentless humidity, Deanna and Delia find themselves rivals for the attentions of Jackson de Guile – an exotic, wealthy entrepreneur and master of power dynamics – who draws them both into a web of luxurious debauchery.

  Their erotic encounters become increasingly bizarre as Deanna and her twin vie for the rewards that pleasuring him brings them; tainted rewards which only serve to confuse their perceptions of the limits of sexual experience.

  About the Author

  Portia Da Costa is one of the most internationally renowned authors of erotica.

  She is the author of Continuum, Entertaining Mr Stone, Gemini Heat, Gothic Blue, Gothic Heat, Hotbed, In Too Deep, Kiss it Better, Shadowplay, Suite Seventeen, The Devil Inside, The Stranger and The Tutor; as well as being a contributing author to a number of Black Lace short-story collections.

  Also by Portia Da Costa:

  Continuum

  Entertaining Mr Stone

  Gothic Blue

  Gothic Heat

  Hotbed

  Magic and Desire

  Shadowplay

  Suite Seventeen

  The Devil Inside

  The Stranger

  The Tutor

  Gemini Heat

  Portia Da Costa

  Dedicated to ISIS …

  … who makes my mind fertile.

  THANK YOU

  Gemini Heat

  ‘Slow down, Dee,’ he whispered, taking her busy hands off him and holding them still in her lap. ‘I’ve waited too long for—’ He paused and smiled boyishly. ‘For something like this ... I want it to last. I want to savour it. Just the way I’ve always imagined I would.’

  This was a deviation from the fantasy pattern. Both with her, and by all accounts, with Deana, Jake had been swift in the taking and pleasuring of his woman. In each case, of course, circumstances had dictated there be haste, but somehow slow leisurely sex was not what she associated with Jackson Kazuto de Guile.

  1

  The Art Lovers

  I can’t take much more of this heat, thought Deana Ferraro, watching the condensation run slowly down the side of her glass. It was only May – the thirtieth to be exact – but the temperatures, both outside and in, were already becoming impossible.

  Sweat ran freely in the crease between her buttocks, caressing them like an unseen lover, and she imagined it sizzling as it trickled and pooled in her vulva. Her entire body felt as hot as the steamy air in the gallery, but down there, in the peach-soft groove of her bottom, the conditions were almost volcanic.

  It’s this bloody exhibition! she thought with feeling. It’s enough to make a celibate, librarian nun boil over, never mind a poor sex-starved creature like me.

  ‘Visions of Eroticism – the de Guile Collection’ the glossy brochure announced with some pomp, but ‘eroticism’ was putting it mildly. The collector in this case was an out and out pervert, a connoisseur of fine art as well as true-blue porn, and Deana had drawn enough nude studies in her life to know that a singularly inspired creation could easily be both. When it had happened to her though she’d hidden the result in the ‘special album’ she kept in her knicker drawer. It seemed that J. K. de Guile, however, the owner of this particular Rabelaisian collection, was quite happy to have his secret masturbation file put on show to the general public.

  There was everything here. Solo sex. Couples. Groups. Explicit penetrations. Byways and fetishes. Every dark, kinky concept from a wild man’s wildest dreams and more.

  A wild woman’s dreams too, thought Deana, moving uncomfortably and wondering if anyone could read her thoughts. There were times when she loved how she felt now: the congestion in the pit of her belly, the heat in her dark, secret crevice, the swollen sensitivity of her clitoris. But it was no fun in public, alone, and with no chance of relief on the horizon. She sipped her wine in the vain hope it might quench her lust as well as her thirst, but it had no effect. She had a lunatic urge to touch herself, here, in the middle of the gallery. To satisfy – albeit temporarily – the dreadful aching yen for sex that had been plaguing her since she’d told Jimmy their fling was over.

  It’s your own fault, Ferraro, she told herself, sipping again and trying to concentrate on the subdued strains of a Mozart trio playing in the background. Only an idiot or a masochist would come to an exhibition of erotic art when she was dying of frustration. But what else could you do when you were alone on your birthday and fed up?

  Delia was the one who should have been here tonight, of course; it was her name on the invitation. Letting Deana come in her place was just a sisterly way of saying sorry … Sorry for not sharing their birthday as they’d always done.

  Deana wasn’t angry with her twin. If anything, she was sorry for her. Even though it was murder on the libido, viewing the de Guile Collection was infinitely preferable to dining with slimy, odious Russell. What the hell did Delia see in him?

  Weaving her way through a swarm of chattering celebs, Deana moved on to the next exhibit – then almost wished she hadn’t. It was a floor to ceiling full-colour photograph of a man and woman making love. And not one of those airy fairy things with tactfully placed shadows either. The couple in the brushed steel frame were actually doing it, copulating for real, and their glistening, tightly nested sex organs were ‘wham bam, thank you ma’am’ right in the centre of the photo.

  ‘Good God,’ whispered Deana, taking another sip of wine. As the crisp, chilled taste flooded her mouth, two thoughts occurred to her. One, that this was her third drink and she was tipsy; two, that the photo above her made her feel worse than ever. Or better, depending on which way you looked at it. Wine and sex were inseparably linked in Deana’s mind, and suddenly she wished she hadn’t been so hasty about Jimmy. She stared up longingly. She needed what they’d got so badly, and even if Jimmy was an unimaginative so-and-so, at least he was good at plain, hard and consistently orgasmic sex.

  Drawing on her artist’s ability to ‘image’, Deana put herself into the picture before her. She saw a slim, shapely woman with dark hair, dark eyes and a warm apricot complexion. An earthy girl with a good figure and a face that was dainty and heart shaped, eyes that were big and bright, and a mouth that was small, but naturally red and with a pout that begged to be kissed.

  Smiling at her own vanity, Deana succumbed to preening. She smoothed down her thin black dress over her narrow waist and the soft, curving flare of her hips.

  An otherwise ninety-nine per cent perfect fit, the black cotton frock was just a smidgeon too tight across her breasts. She’d known that when she’d seen it on the market stall, but she’d loved it and tried it on anyway. The stall holder had peeped at her through the curtains of his makeshift cubicle. He must have known from the dress’s cut that she wouldn’t be able to wear a bra with it, and that he’d get a free show. But somehow, Deana hadn’t minded him seeing her bare breasts. She’d enjoyed it because in many ways, sh
e liked being looked at. Especially by cute-looking rogues like that stall man.

  She couldn’t imagine Delia feeling the same though. Or even liking the dress, for that matter. Second-hand Indian cotton with fringes and mirror beads wasn’t her sister at all, and with a sudden pang of misgiving, Deana wondered if she should’ve tried a bit harder to look like the woman she was supposed to be tonight.

  Facially, it was easy. She and Delia were identical twins, and their alikeness was so uncanny that even their parents had sometimes had problems. Nowadays though, their radically different tastes in clothes and styles made differentiating between the Ferraros simpler. At a function like this, Delia would’ve worn something subtle, neutral and very Jean Muir. Her hair would’ve been groomed to within an inch of its glossy life, and not in a turbulent, nut-brown tangle like Deana’s. What’s more, sensible Delia would’ve been drinking Perrier water with a slice of lime in case her boss of all bosses turned up – not swigging down glass after glass of Frascati as if sobriety were going out of fashion.

  The bonking bodies in the picture were suddenly too much for Deana and she decided to move on. Perhaps there was something blander to look at somewhere, something that wouldn’t make her feel so needful?

  But as she flicked through the catalogue, she felt the most curious sensation surround her. On the back of her neck, the tiny downy hairs stood to attention all at once, and she saw a vague, dark shadow slide into the left-hand periphery of her vision. She gasped when a presence of some kind seemed to reach out and stroke her. Fondle her slowly and with complete familiarity, like phantom male fingertips sliding slickly across the tissues of her sex.

  As unobtrusively as she could, she turned and looked to her left.

  There was a man standing in front of the next exhibit, studying it closely. A man so dark and erotically gorgeous he could’ve been one of the exhibits himself. Schooling herself not to ogle, Deana concentrated on her catalogue, her mind’s eye struggling to ‘image’ again … image him this time, not herself.

  Gripping the shiny pages ’til her knuckles went white, she wondered why she felt suddenly ‘on display’ too. It was as if the man were perusing her intently through the veil of her dress, examining her naked body in the closest of detail even though to all intents and purposes he was looking at a small sepia-work sketch of a woman masturbating.

  You’re imagining things, Deana, she told herself. You’re drunk. He’s probably nothing special and not even interested.

  Even so, her skin glowed hotter than ever and the blush from her face and throat flowed insidiously down to her sex. Her self-awareness doubled, trebled and quadrupled, and her breasts seemed to swell and look lewdly obvious beneath the skimpy top of her dress. She felt as if someone nearby was playing an X-ray beam across her body and taking salacious pleasure from the fact that – because of the heat – she was wearing precious little in the way of underwear.

  Suddenly, she could smell herself too, even though she’d lathered herself in rose-scented skin balm just before she’d come out. With that sombre shadow just inches away, her body smelt musky, sexy and sweaty. A huge blast of pheromones had swamped her feeble perfume, and seemed to be drifting around her like an invisible, mate-calling fog.

  As soft footedly as she could, Deana strolled away. The rush of adrenalin had made her dizzy and she needed to find a cloakroom or something where she could spray herself with cologne and try and let her body cool down. Only then dare she come back and find her dark, disruptive stranger. Taking another glass of wine, and resolving to drink cautiously from now on, she scanned her surroundings. There was no obvious sign indicating a ladies room, but she did see a spot she could escape to.

  The gallery was a rambling modernistic affair, and what noone else seemed to have noticed was a balcony, on the first floor, which – judging by its elevation – would have a commanding view of the whole room. From the floor where she stood, Deana could see very little of the upper level, but above the featureless white parapet, the tops of a number of picture frames were visible. There was obviously more art displayed on the wall beyond, so Deana decided to find her way up to the balcony and look at it.

  It took her several minutes to find the right stairs, but when she arrived on the balcony the view was disappointing. True, when she stood at the waist-high wall and looked over, she could see the whole of the gallery and its gaggle of smartly dressed ‘art lovers’, but Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome was stunningly conspicuous by his absence.

  ‘Oh well done, Ferraro,’ she muttered, ‘he’s gone. You should have chatted him up when you had a chance, you twit!’

  ‘Chatted who up?’

  The voice from beside her was soft and light with an insidiously husky catch. Pure sex, filtered through human vocal cords, and Deana knew exactly who it belonged to. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned around.

  Her moments-only impression hadn’t done him justice. She’d formed a sketch in her mind but what stood before her was a masterpiece, a living composition more fine and sensual than anything in this mad, bad collection.

  ‘Who were you going to chat up?’ her vision in black persisted, but for several seconds all Deana could do was stare at his smiling lips, his large dark eyes, his hands, his body, his crotch. His narrow black eyebrows lifted in enquiry and amusement, and after what seemed like a century she recovered her voice.

  ‘You,’ she said sharply, making a split second decision to be her usual unflinching self. He was raw eroticism on two legs, but she wasn’t frightened of him. She wanted him, yes – instantly and unequivocably – but she didn’t fear him. Although a small voice inside her said she ought to.

  ‘Yes,’ she went on as she faced him. Panicking, creatively she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Although “chat up” is purely a figure of speech. You seem to be one of the few people here who is genuinely interested in the exhibits. So I thought it would be nice to “chat you up” and get your opinions. I’m an artist myself and I wanted to compare … compare my reactions with someone else’s.’ She paused, flustered, realising that she was rabbiting on and that he was still smiling his slow, indulgent smile. ‘You are interested, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. It’s my speciality.’ He accompanied this cryptic utterance with an elegant flip of his fingers. Deana noted the slenderness of his hands and how beautifully kept they were, and suddenly she imagined them slipping knowledgeably over her body, seeking out the most sensitive places and stroking her to climax after climax. She could almost see her own juices on his narrow toffee-coloured fingertips.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ she answered pertly, feeling the blush rise again, then fall as it had done before, to the place that now yearned for this strange dark man. ‘Are you an artist yourself? Do you paint? Or draw?’

  ‘No, sadly I have no talent. I merely observe beauty,’ he replied, his eyes roving almost crudely across her body. As his gaze returned to meet hers, Deana met dark, electric-blue fire and was shocked. Not just by the blatant desire there, but by the fact that with his colouring she’d been expecting brown eyes, or grey ones like hers.

  The shape of his eyes was unusual too. In a caucasian face, they were slanted, oriental, almost cat-like. Wide-set and with thick, sooty lashes, they had a slight overfolding of the lids at the inner corners. Mr Mystery here had the East not too far back in his heritage, and his eyes bore the epicanthus to prove it.

  His hair was also eastern. Steel-black and straight as water, it was smoothed back closely against his head and caught at the nape of his neck in a pony-tail. Its hard, unru¹ed shine reminded Deana of a seal’s coat, but almost instantly, she revised her assessment. Seals were cuddly and playful, and this man just wasn’t. He was a shark or a king cobra, hovering to strike or kill, smiling and deadly. Suddenly, she knew she should fear him.

  ‘Me too,’ she said, responding belatedly. He must think I’m a complete ninny, she thought, annoyed by her own inability to impress. ‘Why don’t we get together?’<
br />
  It was a fairly innocuous remark, and yet the dark eyes before her seemed to spark and court her as if she’d asked him to strip naked and take her. ‘It’d be a pleasure,’ he purred, gesturing towards a nearby painting with that same exotic grace that had affected her so powerfully a moment ago.

  Dear heaven, the man’s a cliché, Deana thought, as she fell into step beside him. An erotic cliché. The classic ‘man in black’, posed like an icon against the featureless white walls of the gallery. A dark and handsome stranger who scored ten out of ten for both technical merit and artistic expression – although on closer inspection, there were some minor but telling idiosyncrasies.

  He was tall, certainly. Using her own five foot seven as a yardstick, Deana estimated him to be about five foot eleven. He was dark, too, not only in his hair and eyes, but also in his skin; which was as smooth as polished wood, its ambery-olive tint another indicator of very Far Eastern origins.

  Handsome? Yes, but not in any bland, conventional sense. Her beauty-loving friend was a beauty himself, the near perfection of his features flawed only by a thin white scar that scored his left temple from brow to hairline. This and his strange slanted eyes – so oriental in a western face – set an unassailable new standard of maleness; as did his reddish, rather full-lipped mouth and a nose that was strong and straight, but with an ever-so-slight and impish up-turn.

  Almost without thinking, she glanced down towards his groin, wondering what his cock would be like. She’d never set much store by old wives’ tales, but with his long slender hands and that bold, pointed nose, she imagined he’d have a penis with similar characteristics. Long but slender, and with a naughty probing glans that would go soul-deep inside a woman and caress her right at her core. He was wearing a pair of tight, narrow-cut, black leather trousers, and where they skimmed his crotch there was a substantial, extenuated bulge that tended to lend credence to her ramblings.