Free Gemini Heat by Portia Da Costa Page A

thighs, and pulling her bottom to the edge of the seat.
    It was like being displayed, exhibited; and blushing furiously, her body heat soaring, Deana let her eyelids droop closed. Her legs lolled loosely apart, still caught at the ankles, and the cool, refreshing air felt delicious. A naughty little breeze was wending its way out from a vent somewhere and playing across her plump juicy sex. The tense, puffy flesh seemed to throb and pulse as if someone had reached out and caressed it, and to her horror and shame she sensed Jake studying the phenomenon intently.
    'Yes . . . Oh yes,' he cooed, not touching the clitoris that begged for his finger but pressing open her labia with his thumbs.
    Deana had never felt more naked; not even on the balcony, that first time, when he'd bent her over the parapet and bared her bottom. Her hands curled into fists and rose up to draw him to her, but inexplicably he batted them gently back to her sides, then settled them down on the leather banquette with all the finality of having chained them there.
    'We're going to a private house I know. It will take us three-quarters of an hour,' he said, his voice suddenly very cool, very precise. 'I'd like you to stay this way until we get there, Dee. Displayed for me . . . Think of it as a test you've to pass.'
    The Deana of thirty-six hours ago would've protested, rebelled, asked questions. But the ensorcelled Deana of now kept her body perfectly still, her eyes shut and her painted lips closed and quiet. She moaned once when her companion inserted a finger into her burning lubricated channel, but fell silent again - even through a faint shivering orgasm - and listened to Jake's litany of eroticism.
    He spoke of the sex that they'd shared at the gallery and the moments he'd particularly enjoyed. He spoke of the things he would do to her body and what he would like her to do to his. He described what he saw before him in spine-tingling detail, every tiny feature of her physical topography - how she looked, how she smelt and how she tasted, withdrawing his finger briefly to sample her, then returning it, newly wetted, to her quim.
    She came several times. Once or twice spontaneously from his words, once on the reinsertion of his finger, once when with no warning at all he squashed his thumb down on her clitoris flat and hard. Deana didn't and almost couldn't open her eyes, but after they'd been travelling some time, and her sixth sense said they were nearing their destination, she felt him take a handkerchief from somewhere and very tenderly tidy up her eye make-up, where it had been disturbed by her hot tears of shame. His face came within inches of hers as he did this, and she orgasmed again from the intoxicating scent of his body and his intimate wild flower cologne.
    As the car oozed to a halt, she made to move - even though he still had her speared.
    'No! Be still!' He was stern now. Icy.
    Deana felt her heart pound and beat as if to burst as the well-oiled mechanism of an expensive car door lock thunked open and a blast of muggy, urban air flowed in across her immolated vulva. She tried to turn away and hide her pinkened face. She scrunched her eyes even tighter shut as if the fact that she couldn't see meant others couldn't either. But Jake seemed bent on humbling her completely. With his free hand he angled her head carefully towards the open door, and with his voice he softly commanded.
    'Eyes open now, Dee.'
    Even as she obeyed him, he started masturbating her, the movements rough and almost violent. Beyond tears now, she stared up into the chauffeur's cool and unper-turbable eyes and saw not a flicker of response in their stony, secretive depths. Not even when she came in a harsh, womb-wrenching orgasm and grunted out her pleasure while her hips wove and bounced on the leather.
    She was a spectacle. A show. A helpless female thing stimulated before a servant for the master's amusement. She felt shamed in a way she'd never experienced before,