GEMINI HEAT

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 erotic scenarios

Blurb

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.

Available from Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com and Portia's Kindle Store

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 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 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.

'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, 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 Kindle Store

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