Please be aware that this excerpt contains sensual content that is only suitable
for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of
It's too darn hot...
As the metropolis sizzles in 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 - a 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: voluptuous rewards which
only serve to confuse their perceptions of the limits of sexual experience.
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Excerpt - unedited
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 artifact for a moment, then he ran the
fingertips of his free hand all the way up from her wrist to her bare shoulder
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
'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 microsecond 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 do you think of this?'
'This' was an 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 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, where crisscrossed
with thin streaks of pink - implying that she'd been recently and cruelly beaten.
She was hand-cuffed, 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 fucked. It didn't seem to matter.
'Glorious, isn't it?' said Jake from behind her, 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 slid 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 violator 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 handling her, and she didn't much
care. She heard herself sigh 'yes' in 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 workmanlike
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, she nodded and stirred gently at her own thick fluids.
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, and for a man.
'Now give me your taste.'
© Portia Da Costa and Virgin Books 2008
Available from Amazon.co.uk,
Amazon.com and Portia's
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