Gemini Heat Page 2

  Of course he had to catch her looking …

  Flicking his gaze down to his own leather covered loins, her companion then panned upwards again, slowly and infuriatingly. His smile was faint but disgustingly and complacently a man’s. Without shame, he was cataloguing her charms as thoroughly as she’d checked out his. More so. And for all his beauty and his sensual chemistry, Deana could have quite happily punched him in the mouth.

  Men. They were all such vain swines … Even if they had every cause to be so.

  ‘Seen enough?’ she retorted.

  ‘No. Not really. But then again, the night is young …’ The slight smile became a broad bright grin that hit Deana square in the solar plexus – as well as in some other more critical areas. She felt herself heat up. Melt. Run.

  ‘Come along, my dear,’ he said, reaching out to take her free hand. ‘Let’s look at some art instead. The very best exhibits are up here, and you and I have got them all to ourselves.’

  He started with surprise when their fingers touched, and Deana smiled, enjoying the tiniest of advantages.

  ‘You’re so warm,’ he said, taking hold of her hand and stretching out her arm. He seemed to study it as a curious artefact for a moment, then he ran the fingertips of his free hand all the way up from her wrist to her bare shoulders in one smooth, continuous caress. The long stroke felt deliciously soft and cool, but she knew that to him, her flesh would feel hot. ‘Do you have a fever? Or is it something else?’ His dark blue gaze bored into her, as if ordering her to say he was the source of the heat.

  Deana didn’t give him the satisfaction. ‘I have a higher than normal body temperature. It’s a family trait. It’s nothing to do with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Realising she was still clutching her glass of wine, she raised it to her lips for Dutch courage.

  But before she could drink, her companion took the glass from her, and proposed a toast.

  ‘Here’s to heat then,’ he murmured softly, ‘especially hot women.’ He took a sip of her wine, his brown throat undulating voluptuously as it went down, then he held the glass to her lips, touching her mouth with its chilly rim and forcing her to drink down its contents.

  Something went flip in Deana’s belly. Men never treated her like this, they were usually slightly in awe of her. But this dark stranger had bent her to his will in the simplest of ways within only a few minutes of meeting him. She drank obediently until the glass was empty, then stood like a doll as he swooped down, placed it on the floor beside them, then stood up again just as quickly and wiped her lips with a flick of his fingers.

  ‘What’s your name, fellow art-lover?’ he asked, his velvet voice far more potent than the wine.

  ‘D—’ She almost said it, but in the micro-second before she completed her name, her interior alarm bell started clanging. Maybe it didn’t matter, but wasn’t she supposed to be ‘Delia’ here?

  ‘Dee,’ she answered after a momentary pause. ‘People call me “Dee”.’

  It was true, she did get called ‘Dee’ – and Delia got it too, especially when people weren’t quite sure which twin they were with.

  ‘And people call me “Jake”, her companion replied, sliding his arm around her shoulders before she could stop him and turning her bodily towards the nearest exhibit. ‘So, Dee, what you do think of this?’

  ‘This’ was a frighteningly beautiful oil painting; the best thing she’d seen in the gallery and by far the most disturbing. Especially now, here, with this audacious Jake who was stroking the tender skin of her shoulder as if they were lovers and had been for years.

  Against the Parapet showed a masked woman, bent from the waist over a low, white plastered wall, and being taken from behind by a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man. His rumpled jeans indicated that he was unzipped in front, but otherwise the man was fully clothed. The woman, in contrast, was bared from the middle of her back to her ankles, her soft red dress bunched ruthlessly at her shoulders and her panties a crumpled blur and still draped around her feet. Her pale thighs and buttocks, where they could be seen behind her assailant, were criss-crossed with thin streaks of pink – implying that she’d been recently and cruelly beaten. She was handcuffed, and her thin wrists, crossed at the small of her back, seemed to command the eye more than any other part of the painting. It wasn’t clear if she was being buggered or simply screwed. It didn’t seem to matter.

  ‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ said Jake from behind Deana, his fingers drifting from her shoulder to the warm bare skin of her back. She felt the cuff of his silk shirt brush delicately against her, then his hand slide slowly around the curve of her rib cage to settle on her breast like a feather.

  Deana registered both his touch and the smoky arousal of his voice, but her attention was still claimed by the painting. The woman’s face was barely sketched, but her attitude was not one of suffering. On the contrary, her willowy body was supremely sensuous and the marks on her smooth white skin were more like marks of pleasure than of pain. The man who was taking her was a cipher – a dark animal form, an accessory to the woman’s enjoyment rather than a protagonist in his own right.

  And yet, somehow, the black shape seemed familiar. She didn’t dare turn and look at him, but Deana could almost imagine that the long, dark marauder was Jake.

  The pressure of his fingers on her nipple dragged her rudely back from her imaginings. He’d taken the stiffly swollen stalk between his thumb and one finger and was swirling it slowly but determinedly. Deana could hardly believe what was happening. Or that she was letting it happen. Or, worse still, that she was responding to it purely on instinct, her hips slowly weaving as the pinching of her nipple transferred itself directly to her aching clitoris – the sensation remote but identical.

  ‘Does it arouse you?’ Jake asked, his warm breath flowing across her neck as his free hand lifted her hair and his mouth settled lightly on her shoulder. She felt his teeth against her skin, very hard and deadly, then a single touch of his tongue. But just when she thought he was going to bite her, he let her hair fall back into place and reached around her to enclose her other breast.

  ‘Does it arouse you, Dee?’ he repeated, gently kneading her, cupping the soft weight of her flesh, and holding both nipples in his fingers now. She’d no idea whether he meant the painting or the way he was holding her, and she didn’t much care. She heard herself sigh ‘yes’ in the affirmative to either.

  ‘Good,’ he whispered, and in a move of total vulgarity, he pressed the jut of his erection into the cotton-covered cleft of her buttocks.

  Deana knew she should try to break free, but instead her body swayed backwards to caress him, gripping at his hardness with the cheeks of her bottom, the gesture as gross as his had been. Under her thin dress she wore only a G-string, and as Jake’s penis poked rudely at her rear, she could feel a single strand of furled silk being rubbed like a goad against her anus.

  She whimpered, trapped between two powerful poles of sensation: his brisk workman-like mauling of her sensitised breasts and the slower, richer, more subversive stimulation of her bottom. He was bouncing her on himself now, and as she gasped and put her hand to her unattended crotch, she heard him laugh like a devil in her ear.

  ‘Yes, Dee, do it,’ he urged. ‘Stroke yourself, you know you want to. The picture’s turned you on, hasn’t it? Touch yourself, Dee, touch your clitoris. I can hear your pussy crying for it … Go on, Dee, caress yourself. Do it!’

  His words compelled her as much as her yearning body did. The situation was unreal, surreal, not of this world – and in this altered erotic state, there seemed no valid reason to defy him. Bunching the cotton of her dress, she drew it up past her knees, her thighs, then her belly. Clutching it inelegantly at her waist, she put her free hand to her groin and pushed her fingers beneath the lace of her G-string. Her sex-lips were puffed open in readiness and the whole of her groove was awash with hot wet slickness.

  ‘Are you wet, Dee?’

  Weak at the knees, sh
e nodded and stirred gently at her own thick fluids.

  ‘Show me.’

  She felt her sex pulsate beneath her touch, then shiver with need as she raised up her fingertips and held them shimmering before her own face and Jake’s.

  ‘Taste yourself,’ he ordered.

  Her flavour was pungent, salty, oceanic, and as she licked her fingers hungrily, she was astounded how much she savoured it. She’d tasted her own juices before, but never with such relish, or for a man.

  ‘Now give me your taste.’

  She reached down again, scooped up her nectar on two fingers and lifted it this time to Jake’s lips. He leaned forward, his chin over her shoulder, and as he sucked the aromatic offering, she caught an intoxicating whiff of his cologne – a heady floral blend that for a moment even drowned out the odour of her sex. She smelt lavender and lily of the valley, so strong and stupefying that she swayed backwards, pressing harder against him, her nether cheeks dividing around the unyielding bulge of his prick.

  ‘Yes,’ he purred, then sucked like a baby on her fingers. Almost swooning, Deana had no way of knowing if it was her flavour he was applauding or the pillowy caress of her bottom. As he ground himself against her, she felt his tongue move mockingly against her fingertips, licking and darting in a sly imitation of cunnilingus.

  ‘Look at the picture, pretty Dee,’ he whispered as he reached up, took her hand, and drew it back down to her groin. Guiding her, he made her touch herself again, press her fingertip against her clitoris as he slipped two fingers of his own into the swimming channel of her vagina. ‘Look at it. Isn’t that what you want? Right here? With me?’ His fingers waggled slightly and she moaned, the sound echoing betrayingly along the narrow balcony. Any second now some curious soul might turn the corner onto this deserted level and find a woman being vigorously masturbated, a man’s hands moving at her breast and her sex.

  This was bizarre. An hallucination. It had to be. She’d met this man literally minutes ago and now she was fingering her own body for him, rubbing herself at his command, giving herself pleasure to please him – while his own fingers were deep inside her. She rippled around him while her mind fought to believe what was happening. Her clitoris leapt beneath her touch, a throbbing blip, a promise of even better things to come.

  ‘Yes, Dee, you do want it.’ His voice was very quiet but utterly triumphant. The tiny, beautiful pre-orgasm had given her away completely. ‘And you shall have it, my sweet girl. There against that little wall over there. Just like in the picture.’ He lifted his hand from her breast to her chin, tilting up her face so she could do nothing but stare at the unbearably stimulating painting. ‘Say yes, Dee,’ he cajoled, flexing his supple wrist and plunging even deeper into her.

  Her mind, her better judgement was screaming, ‘No! Break away! Slap his face and run!’ But she heard herself sob a faint, broken ‘Yes’. Nothing else seemed possible …

  ‘Come with me then.’

  She expected him to remove his hand, take his fingers out of her body. But she blushed with mortification when he led her to the parapet just as she was: still penetrated, still immolated. Edging her towards the low wall, he almost steered her by her sex, his thumb taking control of her clitoris, using little dabs of pressure to guide her.

  It was humiliating, but she couldn’t help responding. Responding with a fervour she’d never felt in her more egalitarian sexual encounters. She’d always had the upper hand with her men, either by her wiles or the sheer force of personality. But here, with Jake, she was simply a hungry female creature he could manipulate. An object. A body. Flesh for his amusement. She’d never felt more alive and ready for sex in her life. She was sandwiched between his hand and his prodding erection and both of them enflamed her.

  ‘Lift your dress,’ he instructed when they reached the waisthigh, white-painted barrier. Below them the glittering assembly still laughed and drank and tried to be blasé about the red hot art on the walls – all the time totally oblivious that a far more outrageous tableau was being enacted above them.

  Someone was going to look up, she was sure of it; and even if they could only see the upper part of her, the motion of lovemaking, the jerking, the leap of a body being thrust into, were all things that were impossible to mistake. How long, she wondered wildly, could she and Jake hope to remain alone?

  ‘Please, no,’ she pleaded, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Please, yes,’ he hissed back at her, a core of steel in the soft, sibilant sound. ‘Lift your dress, Dee. You know it’s what you want.’ She made a murmur of protest when he reached down to begin the process himself; but nevertheless, she took hold of her full flowing skirt and raised it hesitantly to her waist.

  ‘All of it, Dee.’

  Handling the cloth clumsily, she managed to get it all out of the way, deeply embarrassed that the minuscule G-string was her only garment beneath and that the fruit-smooth rounds of her bottom were now on full display.

  ‘Sublime …’ She felt a fingertip trace its way across one full globe, dip into her uncovered crevice, then slide out again and delineate the other firm cheek. Without warning, he hooked his thumbs through the elastic at her waist and began teasing it downwards. In a couple of seconds he had the silly, ineffectual garment right down around her knees, and with his own knee, he nudged open her legs, stretching the scrap of black lace into an obscene elasticated bridge.

  In her mind’s eye she saw her own silky-skinned bottom, gleaming pale and nude like the woman’s in the picture. There were no cane marks on her, but already she felt branded in other ways. This man had laid hands on her, had his fingers in her, and deep in some secret recess of her heart she knew she could never be the same again.

  She felt a simmering heat both without and within her; her sex-flesh was naked now and shining wet. A trickle of lovejuice ran like honey down her leg, and she could feel its slow explicit track as it crawled across her skin. Behind her, Jake would be able to see it, dribbling in plain sight down the smooth inner sweep of her thigh. She’d never seeped like this before, and she knew – without knowing why – that Jake himself was fully aware of the fact.

  He was light on his feet, but she sensed him step closer. His hands gripped her bare buttocks and mounded them, just as he’d mounded her breasts.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he sighed into her ear, squeezing the taut resilient flesh, then shifting it and massaging it in slow insulting circles that made her weep with shame … then climax with forbidden excitement. The sensation peaked unbearably when he opened her cheeks almost painfully wide and seemed to peer at the rose of her anus.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he whispered again, the word so tangible it seemed as if he’d touched her there, right on the tiny quivering hole.

  She knew then that the woman in the picture was being buggered. It wasn’t shown, it was just ancient female instinct that told her. The same instinct that told her Jake knew it too, that he had some special knowledge of the painting and its origins – and that he wanted to reproduce it, make it real on this balcony.

  ‘No! Oh, please,’ she gasped, but he was already too close, already unzipping: the sharp rasping sound a raw threat. ‘Please, not that! Not here!’

  As he leaned over her back, she was forced forward against the parapet and had to take her weight on one hand because the other was still clutching at her skirt. Beyond speech, she made a tiny mewing sound, a squeak of perfect fear.

  ‘It’s all right, my sweet Dee,’ he reassured, his gentle tone more menacing than harshness would have been. ‘Not here. Not now. But soon though …’ She felt his penis sliding across her soft rear furrow, teasing the orifice that trembled in terror of his entry. He felt so big, so slippery … The velvet skin of his glans was hot even to her, the one who should’ve felt it as cool. Repeatedly and wickedly, the rounded bulb probed impudently at her bottom, and as the mass of it pressed and almost entered, then slid away down her long juicy niche, she felt an irrational twinge of regret.

  She’d been so
scared he’d bugger her, scared of the pain, and even more scared of the huge loss of dignity; but now it wasn’t going to happen she almost wanted it. It had been some years since she’d been a virgin, but suddenly with this strange new man, this vision, this presence from out of nowhere, she wanted something fresh to give. Something new and untouched that Jake could have the first bite of.

  But before she could properly analyse her feelings, he was taking her, his long stiff penis forcing its way into her vagina, her satin membranes yielding exquisitely to his hot living bulk. Inclining her body forward, she felt faint, disorientated, aware only – for several long seconds – of his member pushing in, in, in; its entry long and sweet and total as his fingers crept down across her belly, then plunged into her bush, seeking and finding her clitoris. Her flesh jumped around him as he touched it, her inner walls twitching and caressing him of their own accord. She suppressed her groans, came softly, and felt the deepest, most female jubilation when he gasped against her ear in his pleasure.

  ‘You’re a hot little minx, my Dee,’ he whispered, rotating his hips once, then sliding his fingers to and fro over her bud. She tasted blood in her mouth from sinking her teeth into her own lip. What he was doing was too great to be borne in silence, and yet she could not and must not cry out. The people below were waiting for her screams, waiting for her to moan out her ecstasy as he tantalised her tiny clitoral bead, worked it clear of its protecting hood, and flicked and pinched it until she wove her hips helplessly in response.

  He was cooing softly against the back of her neck, gentling her in the way a skilled horseman would calm a restive filly. He was quieting her and soothing her, murmuring encouragements to pacify her, and all the time his fingertip moved relentlessly on the intimate nexus of her pleasure.

  Deana felt as if her body was disassembling itself and breaking down into its constituent fluids. Tears trickled down her cheeks, sweat pooled in her armpits, between her breasts and in her groin, and her love-juice was running so freely around Jake’s rigid cock that it overflowed out of her sex and seeped down her legs in silvery, slow-moving streams.