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sins: her wet, pulpy quim, her swollen labia and the semen drying stickily on her thighs.
    Deana didn't usually need much make-up, but what she had put on tonight had been ruined. Her mascara was all over her cheeks and she'd chewed off her last scrap of lipstick. Taking more time than she actually needed, she reapplied everything, working slowly and meticulously to delay the moment when she'd have to leave this opulent bolthole and face the man who'd possessed her.
    But when she did finally emerge, he wasn't there to be faced.
    As discreetly as she could, she searched the balcony, the corridors, and the main body of the gallery. A couple of times she imagined she saw him - a lean sleek figure in black silk and leather - but it was just as much an illusion as the exhibits themselves were.
    The bastard, she thought, hating him as passionately as she'd enjoyed his hard, dark body. He's gone . . . He's had me and now he's buggered off and left me!
    Bereft of it's most truly erotic component, the gallery full of dirty pictures had suddenly lost all its charm. Wine was still being served, but Deana felt repelled by even the thought of drinking. Rolling up her catalogue, she made her way slowly out into the hot night air.
    As she stood on the pavement, debating between a taxi and the Tube, a strange and perplexing thought occurred to her . . .
    Somewhere in this crazy, boiling city was a man called Jake who'd made love to her. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering the orgasms and the pleasure, and realised that not once during the whole insane experience had he put his mouth against hers and kissed her.
    Chapter Two
    A Prince in the City
    I' ' 'm being possessed by the Devil, I must be! thought
    Delia Ferraro in the darkness.
    Behind her tightly closed eyes she saw a handsome, yet indistinct face, the long bronzed column of a man's strong body, and - as it loomed above her - the beauty of his full, naked sex.
    Soundlessly, like the dream of perfection he was, the man slid in between her wide open thighs, found the tropical place that wanted him, then thrust deeply and surely inside her. To the hilt. The bulk of his flesh was considerable and he stretched her, but with a broken sigh of pleasure, she lifted up her hips to encourage him.
    Don't speak! Oh, please, my Prince, don't speak! she begged him silently as he started to move. Her body was quickening, soaring up the slope towards orgasm, but as the elusive silvery heaviness formed around his sliding organ, she knew that any second it could be snatched away from her. Dissolved by words. Her need to climax was like a rage in her flesh, but it was delicate and friable too. If her lover spoke, her pleasure could be torn clean away, dismantled, destroyed. She'd be high and dry, left hanging - unmoved.
    But the spirits smiled, just as they'd done last night, and the inner image of her gorgeous dark Prince, stayed clear and strong and true. And for the second time in a row, the amalgam of her own mind and physical reality obeyed her. The toiling man above her groaned and gasped and moaned, but didn't speak. He murmured with satisfaction as he worked in deeper, but mercifully the sounds remained guttural.
    Two grabbing hands held her bottom in a spasmic grip, and as the pace of thrusting increased, Delia felt a moment of pure panic. She wasn't quite ready. It was too soon. The Prince's face faded to a featureless blank and the curtained harem of her fantasy wavered and grew faint.
    No! Not now! Don't leave, she begged, aware on a more cognisant level that she was pleading with her own imagination. Wriggling in her lover's hold, she pushed her fingers down between her sweating body and his and sought out the cleft of her labia. There was a grunt of disapproval in her ear, but Delia ignored it. With a giant effort of will she summoned her sweet dark secret fantasy to her bosom, then pressed hard on her own throbbing clitoris - pounding at the tiny wet bead with a ferocity that