Gemini Heat Read Online Free PDF

made her corporeal partner redundant.
    As her fevered flesh leapt she made a small sound of relief, and in her mind, the finger in her furrow became the Prince's. After a couple of seconds, it turned magically into his tongue, pointed and moist, flickering and dancing for her pleasure.
    The pictures she saw were clear and unbearably sweet. Before they'd been simple interior visuals, but now their texture was totally integrated. She could hear words now, but they were coming from within. 'Sublime' a soft voice purred, and on the screen behind her eyes she got a micro-second flash of her dark lord's face. It was the first time she'd seen it so clearly, and the image was so erotic that she almost climaxed. It was gone again before her pleasure-soaked senses could imprint it though, leaving only an impression in its wake: a fancy, a memory, one of her sister's sketches . . . and crazily, an odour. An intoxicating blend of heavy blooming flowers that came not from the room she was lying in but from the harem of her mind and her dreams.
    And as orgasm drafted through her, her last sense gave up its gift. Clamping her knuckle in her teeth to keep in her screams, she tasted not her own hot skin, but the unmistakable flavour of man - the pungent tang of stiff sexual flesh and the fluids that leaked and flowed from it.
    For one instant, as she came, she could have sworn that she'd tasted the Prince.
    Russell hadn't liked it. He hadn't liked it one bit. And as Delia stood in the shower, sluicing her body with water and still feeling hot, she realised that a lot of her heat came from anger.
    What on earth was wrong with him? Most men went wild for enthusiasm in bed, but not her Mister Prissy Russell. He only seemed to like it when she was passive. In the beginning it hadn't been a problem; they'd seemed so well-suited in other ways that the less than glorious sex hadn't been high on their agenda.
    But sometime in the last few weeks, Delia had changed. Or her libido had. She couldn't pin down the beginning of this metamorphosis, but all she knew was that now she wanted good sex and lots of it. She wanted orgasms aplenty. She wanted exciting, active bed-play and all the noise and histrionics that went with it, and every dreary uninspiring event she shared with Russell only made her crave mayhem even more.
    She'd sought the advice of her sister, of course. Deana was fifteen minutes younger but several millenia ahead in sexual experience, and she had given two simple pieces of advice. The first was a blunt 'chuck the miserable bastard!' - a drastic measure that Delia was rapidly beginning to consider. The second was that Delia should fantastise more, both in bed and out of it.
    She'd embraced this idea immediately. Hence the arrival of the 'Prince'.
    He was a classic stereotype, she realised, but he worked so well for her that she didn't worry about it. Her macho cliche of sexual fantasy could inject far more thrills into her than Russell's real life penis had ever done. The Prince was tall, dark, undefined male-ness: lean-bodied, large-sexed, phantasmagorical yet strangely real when she opened her mind to him. Following Deana's instructions, she thought about him before sex, during sex, and after sex . . . and at a lot of other times in between. She'd never once - except for that one split second this morning - seen his face, but she knew every last nuance of his erotic modus operandi.
    The Prince liked a noisy orgasmic response and went out of his way to evoke it. He used his hands and mouth on her body and sex for hours and hours and hours before even suggesting he penetrate her. The time dynamics of fantasy were conveniently accommodating, however, and this delicious preparation could be miraculously compressed into the few minutes it took Russell to get through his usual in-out-shake-it-all-about.
    And that's what'd happened this morning - in the degrading quickie that Russell had unexpectedly wheedled out of her before work. He'd