Gemini Heat (28 page)

There were shallow steps at the far side of the pool and Jake was already moving towards them. 'Let's do something else,' he said conversationally, emerging from the bubbles with water running down in a rude-looking stream from the end of his semi-hard cock. Unconcerned and utterly natural, he lifted a thick white towel from a stack of about twenty, and rubbed vigorously at his hips, his belly and his dark-red stiffening sex.

With his skin still moist and shiny, he flung the towel around his shoulders, leaving his lower body bare, and came slowly round to her side of the pool.

'Come on, Dee,' he said briskly, 'let's have you out of the water!'

Then, before Delia could protest, or question his action, he'd reached down into the pool, slid his strong hands under her arms and spirited her up and out of the water with little discernible effort. Disorientated, she found herself standing on the pool-side, dripping and still wondering exactly how she'd got there. Obviously, there was far more strength in those lean brown arms than a cursory glance might suggest.

Within seconds, she was being swathed in a sublimely soft towel of her own, rubbed with considerable energy and then made to stand like an awkward, reluctant child while Jake stripped off her bra and panties with a disturbing efficiency and detachment. Hardly glancing at her still damp body, he smoothed and arranged her wet, tousled hair, then dabbed at the smeary remnants of her make-up with cotton wool and a fine herbal lotion.

'There, that's better,' he said, sounding pleased with his efforts. He spoke, and was acting, with an easy calm that made him seem totally immune to her nudity . . . but down below his cock was saying otherwise.

He was fully erect now, his strong reddened shaft standing straight out before him and its tip thickly swollen and moist. He was as sexually excited as a man could possibly be but his face looked as placid as a guru's.

'Come along, sweet Dee,' he said, slinging aside his towel and reaching for her hand. 'Let's go and find ourselves a drink. It must be about that time.'

She half expected him to find robes or kimonos for them, but within seconds they were walking down the corridor. Delia's eyes were helplessly riveted on his long waving sex, and her own body was as naked as his . . . And as aroused.

The biggest surprise was that they even descended the staircase while nude, then strolled into a large, elegant salon-like room whose wide-open French window looked out onto a well-tended garden. She could see even Fargo out there - wearing shades and denim cut-offs now instead of his usual smart black -kneeling beside a flower-bed and ruthlessly eradicating weeds.

'Let's stay inside for now,' said Jake, leading her to a deeply upholstered, brocade covered chair and almost pushing her down into its depths. 'The sun's quite high and I don't want that lovely skin of yours to burn.' His fingers drifted languidly across the slope of her taut swollen breast, and she shivered at his super-cool smoothness. As he walked away, to a chair of his own, she admired the small, tight rounds of his perfectly formed masculine bottom.

Delia had seen no button pushed and heard no bell rung, but within seconds Elf joined them in the room, a heavy silver tray held effortlessly in her slender little hands. She smiled at Delia quite normally, as if she often saw women sprawled naked on the priceless antique furniture. It could be that she often did!

'Gin and tonic?' she enquired of Delia, hefting a sparkling cut-glass decanter when she'd set down the tray on the sideboard.

'Oh, please! I'd love one!'

The thought of that crisp, aromatic taste and the quicksilver punch of the spirit was irresistibly welcome. And when the drink itself came, the mix was perfect: as strong and bracing as Deana might have made when the pair of them had had a bad day.

As it was Delia took it and sank about a third of it immediately - deeply flustered by Jake's intent stare.

'You look as though you needed that.' His own very modest sip seemed to accuse her somehow, and piled on the pressure to confess and be done with it. 'Is there something you'd like to tell me?' he asked softly, putting his glass to one side and standing up again. From somewhere concealed, Elf had produced a robe for him; not the gossamer-fine silk kimono of the other night, but a fairly plain silver-grey cotton wrap that was in its own way just as seductive. Holding out his arms he allowed it to be slipped around his shoulders, but didn't bother fastening the sash. As the tension mounted, Delia half expected a robe to be produced for her too, but none was forthcoming. Taking a gin and tonic for herself, Elf retired to a ladder-back chair in the corner of the room, her smooth face devoid of expression.

Now was the moment to confess, of course, to own up to being a twin and a trickster . . . but before Delia could speak, Jake suddenly seemed distracted. He strolled back across the room towards her, and stared down at some objects that lay on a large occasional table beside her.

Delia had barely noticed the table, and certainly not looked at its contents. But now she followed Jake's eyeline . . . and felt her bare skin tingle with goose-bumps.

What she saw there was quite ordinary and familiar. A thick A3 pad of artist's drawing paper, and beside it a clutch of pencils. They were the sort of soft smudgy pencils that Delia saw everyday in her own home: cluttering up the work surfaces, saving places in books, sliding down the sides of armchairs. She'd even seen a certain person stir her coffee with them.

'I've been thinking about what you said about being an artist, Dee,' purred Jake, his voice electric, 'and I've decided I'd like you to draw me . . . Right now.' He paused, struck an attitude, then strode over to an opulent cushion-strewn settee and lay down. As he settled he let his long legs part and fall rudely akimbo, and between them his sex stood proud and red and if anything harder than ever.

'OK . . . I'm ready,' he prompted, smiling. Almost laughing.

Oh God! Oh damn! Oh shit! There was nowhere to run to now . . .

Delia had always reckoned there'd been a supernova in the constellation of Gemini in the fifteen minutes between her birth and her sister's. It was the only way to account for their different natural talents. Give Deana paper and pencils like those on the table and you'd get a witty character sketch, a sensual male nude, or even a line perfect Tom and Jerry in the space of five minutes.

But with the same materials, Delia was helpless. Even her stick-men were unrecognisable as such. She could write a detailed and incisive work-report. She could make a perfect cheese souffle and a even better cocktail to wash it down with. She could rewire a plug in under two minutes, and she could even sing well enough to have once considered a musical career . . . but she couldn't draw to save her life!

It wasn't her life that depended on it now, but her hands were shaking as she reached out and picked up a pencil . . .

It was wicked of him to tease her like this. He knew that, but the process was so entertaining, and so stimulating, that he couldn't help himself.

'Well then, Dee . . . How about it?' Jake let his hand fall to his prick and he stroked it gently, thus increasing the area of her 'study'. 'I'd like to hang your work here.' He gestured expansively with his free hand, indicating this house that he liked well enough but didn't consider his home. 'Or perhaps in my place in Geneva. I'm sure whatever you do, it'll be the jewel of my collection.'

He was asking for art, but her lovely, scared face was a picture in itself. And her body too. Both told the proverbial story.

Her face was a captivating mix of apprehension, defiance and confused sexual excitement. Her body spoke unequivocably of lust. Hers, so clear in her pink, rosy blush and the superlative hardness of her nipples . . . And his, in all of him, when he looked at her sex and throbbed with desire. He wanted to come right now, just from the thought that a
second
woman - one equally and identically alluring - was being brought to him right at this moment.

The Ferraro twins. Doubly beautiful. Doubly intelligent and fiery. Interchangeable and matching in everything - even their strange body-heat - yet entirely and enchantingly different. He wanted to love them and be loved by them together. Have their two slender, hot-sweet bodies entwined and entangled with his. His erotic instincts were acute however, and even though it saddened him, he sensed that they'd find such a 'twin' scene abhorrent. They were prepared to play this sexy game of theirs, take turns and share him serially . . . but to kiss him, suck him and caress him in each other's presence? No.

That, he realised with wistful longing, was never going to happen. There was no point even opening a dialogue.

But there was still fun to be had with these two fiesty, fabulous lookalikes. For him
and
for them. And as he watched the woman called Delia blush wildly and fumble with a pencil, he thought of her sister too and wondered if with her might lie a chance for something else. Something deeper . . . More lasting.

'It's no good. I can't do it,' said Delia, throwing down the pencil.

'But when we were in the gallery, Dee, you told me you were an artist,' Jake pointed out, his firm mouth curved into a demon of a grin. 'Surely I'm not so hideous that I strip you of your skills?' As he spoke he flexed his limbs again, and if anything made the pose even lewder. His fingertips moved steadily over his penis, caressing it to an even greater hardness.

He was quite, quite beautiful, thought Delia, wishing there were no complications, no games and that she could simply glide across the room, ease her own sex open with her fingertips and slip it down over his. She even wished she could
really
draw. There'd never be a better sight to record for posterity . . .

'I've never had the skills,' she said in a tiny, breathy voice - hoping that if he didn't quite hear her, the deception might seem less heinous.

'I beg your pardon?' The devil-smile widened, and out of the corner of her eye, Delia saw Elf lean forward ever so slightly.

'I can't draw! I never could! And I never told you I could!'

He didn't speak this time; all she got was a questioning lift of his immaculate wing-straight eyebrows.

'The girl you met in the gallery was my sister, Deana Ferraro. There are two of us. We're identical twins. Deana and Delia . . . Now are you satisfied?'

'Not quite,' he murmured, his hand still at work on his prick. It was extremely aroused now, hard and almost purple, the tiny eye opening and weeping out its juice. No, he wasn't satisfied, but he certainly would be soon . . .

'Aren't you going to say anything? Ask me anything?' she demanded. His erotic calm was unnerving, the slow glide of his fingers perplexing and hypnotic.

'No. I'll let
you
tell me.' Shuffling slightly on the couch, he reached beneath himself and carefully cradled his balls, 'Go on, Delia. Let's hear it all.' At work on the whole of his genitals now, he let his head fall back against the cushions: his eyes closed, his lips slightly curved, and his long throat stretched-taut and gleaming.

It was difficult to convey her account lucidly with a naked man masturbating in front of her, and Delia's words were a muddle. She was astounded by her own sexual candour, but she still stuttered and stammered and faltered - and wondered what had happened to the clear-voiced woman who gave such hot-shot managerial presentations.

Every now and again she clammed up dead in her tracks; especially when Jake moaned, or sighed, or arched his body in pleasure. He seemed supremely expert in teasing himself right to the brink, and on several occasions, Delia was certain that he'd pushed himself over it. That he was going to orgasm, ejaculate, and scream. But every time she stopped, and gaped open-mouthed in awed anticipation, he'd back off within a heartbeat of coming, quite blatantly slow down his handstrokes and breathe deeply to contain his release.

'Are you listening?' she snapped suddenly, when he seemed unmoved by her graphic descriptions of her parting from Russell.

Jake's eyes flicked open, blue and glittery as he slanted her a penetrating glance. 'Of course,' he said smoothly, then began an embarrassingly verbatim repeat of that furious farewell screw - his hips shifting slowly and explicitly as he did so.

'Carry on then, my delicious Delia,' he said when he'd finished grilling her on the hot coals of shame, 'complete your story . . . Tell me how long the two of you thought you could get away with this.'

'There's not much more,' she whispered, 'I . . . um ... I saw Peter for a while last night, but nothing much happened.' Those black brows flicked again, 'And this morning, Deana was still fast asleep when I left. But she was smiling when I looked in on her, so—' She flashed him an enquiring glance of her own, 'so I presume she had a pleasant night with you.'

'I suppose you could say that. . .'He chuckled softly, then before she could speak, respond or even really take in what was happening, he pumped his stiff flesh with one, two, three long strokes, and his semen shot out in an arc, flew high into the air, then fell back down onto his body.

'Although I doubt if the adjective "pleasant" does the experience full justice,' he resumed, unruffled, when his penis had finished its squirting and his pale silky essence lay in thick, fat drops on his belly. As she watched, ensorcelled, he massaged it into his skin like a cream or a moisturising lotion.