Gemini Heat

by Portia Da Costa

  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.

  As he sat down beside her, a primal womanish fear made her cower ever-so-slightly away, and this made him smile. With a slick, almost reptilian swiftness, his long hand whipped out and cupped her feverish cheek.

  ‘You’re so exciting, sweet Dee,’ he murmured, leaning forward and feathering her lips with his. It was a chaste kiss, almost nothing, yet in the heart of it his tongue moved delicately on her skin. ‘I’d like to spend the day with you. Keep you aroused for hours and hours. Play with this hot little body … his fingertip slid from her face and cruised down over her jaw to her throat … until you beg for me. But alas, I’ve a meeting in ten minutes which I’ll have to attend, even though I’m still excited.’ Taking her shaking hand in his, he laid it against his erection, straining in the containment of his underwear. Even to her, and through his clothes, he felt warm – a great hard mass that pulsed and throbbed even as she held him.

  He made a throaty sound as she unconsciously caressed him. Had this strong bar of flesh been inside her? she wondered, frantic at not truly knowing. She’d dreamed of it, yes, but it could’ve been just that. A dream.

  With obvious reluctance, he removed her hand from his body and rose gracefully to his feet. ‘Later, my gorgeous Dee,’ he said, his voice intimate even though he was already wit
hdrawing from her orbit. ‘I have to go now.’

  Her distress must have shown on her face, she realised, because with a look of almost compassion, he stepped close again, took up the hand that had held him and dusted her fingers with a kiss.

  ‘Take the rest of the day off. Go home, relax, and I’ll collect you tonight at eight.’ And then he was moving again, going, leaving her with little apparent regret. For all it seemed to cost him, they could’ve just finished a discussion on staff performance statistics – which was what she’d been expecting before he’d taken hold of her life and turned it on its head. ‘Wear something stylish, Dee. Dress to impress. I know just the place to take you.’ With that, and no other word of farewell, he was gone – leaving the long airy room without once looking back in her direction.

  Stunned, she sat on the warm leather settee for minute after minute after minute. Jake’s secretary would come in to investigate soon, wondering why Delia was still here when her boss had gone.

  And yet the gigantic question still plagued her. Had he or hadn’t he? He’d touched her, pleasured her, sucked her even … But had he been in her? She tried and tried to remember.

  It wasn’t until she finally rose to her feet that she received a conclusive answer. When she straightened up and twitched at her lapels and smoothed down her skirt, she felt a slight but very telling sensation. The physical evidence.

  As she walked slowly towards the door and the sexless world of office normality, a thin skein of her fluid trickled out from beneath the soft, loose leg of her camiknickers.

  ‘Damn you, Jake! Damn you!’ she whispered, both hating the man and already missing him.

  3

  The Gemini Game

  ‘Deana! Where the hell are you? I know you haven’t gone to work!’

  At the sound of her sister’s angry voice, Deana sank down beneath the surface of her tepid bath and submerged her head to shut out both the voice and the prospect of facing its implications.

  But when she popped up again, her streaming hair clinging to her face and neck, the sounds of a sibling on the warpath were still there and getting louder.

  She knows! thought Deana climbing from the cooling water and wrapping her nude body in a towel. Somehow she knows about Jake … God, I hope he’s not someone important at work!

  Deana dried herself slowly for a number of reasons. The first was that even though it couldn’t be much later than midday, it was already too hot for hectic activity. The second was to give herself time to frame what she could say to Delia. The third was because the action of the towel on her naked skin reminded her of Jake and the way he’d touched her and taken her. And even though his disappearance had been as intensely infuriating as it had been sudden, she couldn’t stop reliving what had happened with him!

  She’d never had sex quite like it, but it was certainly a kind she would’ve liked more of. If I’d been able to get it, she observed silently – as irate knuckles rapped at the locked bathroom door.

  ‘Deana!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know you’re in there! Get dressed and come out at once!’

  Narrow, tapping heels receded furiously across parquet flooring outside and by the time Deana had tucked her towel into a makeshift sarong, then unlocked the door and poked her head out, Delia – the righteous avenger – had gone.

  When she padded gingerly into the lounge, Deana got something of a surprise. Her sister, always a cautious drinker and never one to partake during the daytime, was corkscrewing open some white wine. Two glasses stood on the coffee table – one in front of the couch and one in front of the armchair – and Deana got the impression that a summit conference was about to begin.

  ‘Sit down, Deana.’ Delia’s voice was calm as she poured out the wine, but Deana wasn’t fooled. Sister dear was well het up about something – the more reasonable she sounded the worse it usually boded.

  The wine, for once, did not make Deana relax. This was cheap and cheerful stuff she was sipping, but it still made her think of the brew that she’d drunk last night, the cool smooth nectar that had softened her up for Jake.

  ‘How was the exhibition?’ enquired Delia ominously. ‘Anything unusual happen?’

  For half a second Deana considered lying, but realised just as quickly it was useless. She and Delia weren’t the uncanny type of twins who could mind-read, but they were certainly close enough to tell when one another were fibbing.

  ‘Er … Yes, there was something actually. A man. I met this man.’

  ‘You “met” a man?’ It didn’t take all that many words to condemn her. And as she looked into the face that was so magically like her own – yet in many ways so different – Deana knew she would have to tell all.

  ‘It was more than that …’ After taking a deep breath, then a deeper drink of her wine, she slowly and haltingly began.

  As she outlined the extraordinary events on the balcony, she didn’t dare look at her sister. Instead she studied her glass like a crystal ball, and in its several times refilled depths, she saw the dark, almost samurai face of Jake. Her handsome, outrageous, insatiable Jake.

  ‘So,’ prompted Delia when Deana finally dried up. ‘This man you let fuck you? And you think he might be part-oriental …’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Deana, as shocked by her sister’s language as by anything. Delia never ever used the ‘f’ word.

  ‘Well, that’s rather a coincidence, Deana …’ Delia topped up her own glass, drank from it, then piling on the tension, paused to kick off her shoes and unfasten the buttons of her jacket.

  For an instant, Deana was surprised by her sister’s rather glamorous underwear. Then she forgot it again as Delia continued her deadly calm discourse.

  ‘Yes, it’s very odd indeed. I met a half-oriental man this morning. One Jackson Kazuto de Guile. J. K. de Guile, that is. “Jake”, as he likes to be called.’ Delia’s glass went down onto the coffee table. Very carefully. Very precisely. ‘He’s my boss, Deana, and you dropped your knickers for him twenty minutes after you met him. What the bloody hell were you playing at? I asked you to keep a low profile!’

  ‘You also said there’d be no-one from your section there, so it didn’t matter that you’d given your ticket away!’ Deana felt indignant herself now. If Delia was going to take on about this, she had to understand it was partially her own fault. If she’d had the good sense to attend the exhibition herself instead of going out with Mr Yukky Russell, the whole situation wouldn’t have arisen.

  Suddenly, Deana felt almost queasy. If Delia had gone to the art gallery, she’d have been the one on the balcony with Jake! ‘What ifs’ and consequences began to stack up like cards, and on top of them all was the realisation that Delia had now met Jake.

  ‘What did he say? Did you tell him? What did he say about us being twins?’ said Deana.

  ‘Not much. No. Nothing.’

  ‘What are you on about, Delia? What do you mean?’ The dizzy feeling came back and Deana gulped down more wine, trying to wash away her forebodings.

  ‘Just what I said.’ Delia’s voice was odd; she sounded as confused and disorientated as Deana felt. ‘He didn’t say a very great deal. And because I didn’t get a chance to tell him we were twins, he doesn’t know.’

  The bottle was empty now, so Deana twisted a corner of her towel nervously instead of drinking, aware that although the heat was steadily increasing, she suddenly felt cold and shivery.

  ‘So he thinks it was you he had last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Delia Ferraro?’

  ‘He calls us “Dee”.’

  ‘And did he … Was he?’

  How to ask? What to ask? A man had come into her life last night and changed her in a way she was hard pressed to describe. She’d been given a glimpse of a whole new sensuality and then had it snatched away just as quickly. But now there was a chance again. A backwards-about-chance, fraught with complications and pitfalls.

  ‘What did he say about the sex?’
Deana blurted out at last.

  Delia’s face was a picture. In spite of everything, Deana’s fingers itched for a pencil to capture such a subtle combination of emotions. Her sister was confused, yes, but also full of excitement, mischief and wonder. Her anger was still there, but fading now; replaced by a curious complicity.

  ‘Well,’ Delia said at last, ‘he’s a man of action, isn’t he? Not words …’

  Deana felt her own emotions surge and swirl and rise up to choke her. ‘The randy bastard!’ she cried. ‘He’s had you, too, hasn’t he?’ She couldn’t properly tell whether she felt jealousy or admiration. And if it was admiration, was it for this potent, beautiful, philandering de Guile? Or was it for her cautious, self-possessed sister, who’d done something utterly disgraceful at last? Good grief, it was only just after midday. They’d have to have done it at the office!

  Suddenly the two Ferraros were hugging each other and sobbing in a huge, cathartic release of tension. Firing garbled questions at each other, still faintly, mutually jealous, but more than anything, excited. They’d shared boyfriends in their teens, and played tricks on those boys, swapped places without telling them. They’d made up their own private game and seen just how long a swain could be hoodwinked into believing there was just one girl …

  But this was the first time in their adult life that they’d shared a man – and the first time ever that they’d both had that same man as a lover. To Deana it felt like a bizarre but strangely apposite rite of passage.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked when they’d settled down and – in an unprecedented move for her – Delia had shucked off her severe jacket and was curled up on the sofa with her skirt all scrunched and her bosom half revealed by an extravagant yellow silk camisole.

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ replied Delia, absentmindedly fiddling with a shoulder strap, ‘but whatever we do, we’ve got to make a decision by tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Jake’s coming to collect “Dee” at eight.’