Gemini Heat by Portia Da Costa

just crawl downstairs, summon Jake the Prince into her drunken dreams and masturbate herself to oblivion.
    Feeling cheered by that prospect, she watched Peter fuss with glasses and bottles and ice, and once again felt that strange surge of interest.
    Gentle Peter, their upstairs neighbour, with his soft brown hair, his skinny pale-skinned body and his large hazel eyes behind owlish horn-rimmed glasses. He was no de Guile, no fantasy sex-god, but tonight he had a surprising allure to him. And he certainly had a massive edge over Russell, she thought guiltily, realising how little she'd thought about the man who was supposed to be her boyfriend. It had been a turbulent day, admittedly, but after she'd left his flat, she'd almost forgotten he existed. She'd have to do something about that soon too.
    'OK then, let's hear it,' said Peter folding his lean frame into the seat opposite hers, then taking a deep, and plainly much needed, swallow of his ice-cooled home-made wine.
    'Well, I told you about the "big boss of all big bosses", didn't I?' She paused to take a sip of her own wine, and was silenced for a full thirty seconds. Its high-octane, fruit-loaded flavour exploded on her tongue - then seemed to descale the inside of her throat. 'Good grief, Pete, this stuff is lethal!' she croaked, taking another, more cautious sip.
    'The boss of all bosses,' he prompted, making Delia look up sharply. That sexy, angry edge was back again, and behind the thick glass lenses that helped him to see, his puppy-dog eyes looked suddenly and dangerously hard.
    Slowly, she began. Slowly, because the tale seemed sordid told from the outside and needed conveying with care. She hid nothing though, because this was Pete, her mate and Deana's, the one with whom they'd always shared their troubles.
    Sexual honesty got easier as the wine bottle emptied. As the heavy fruit nectar slid more comfortably down her throat, it seemed natural to describe Jake more fully. Without thinking, she waxed lyrical about his lips, his hands and his cock. Then moved on drunkenly to the case of mistaken identity, and the Gemini Game. Which suddenly seemed a perfectly logical and acceptable way to conduct oneself. Oneselves . . .
    And as the wine warmed her belly and loins she felt no shame in describing how she wished that tonight was 'her' night with her Prince, de Guile. How she craved again what she'd had that morning. And more. How she wanted to know she'd been taken this time, to feel it. Feel that big, smooth penis sliding into her and filling her as it had filled Deana at the exhibition. As it was probably filling her now - in some luxurious bed in some exclusive hotel or apartment.
    "Tisn't fair, Pete!' she said, aware that she was slurring and that she was lolling ungracefully in her armchair. Her legs were splayed akimbo in a fair approximation of how they'd been on Jake's black leather couch. She was drunk, but it didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered but not having Jake inside her. She'd lost the toss and now her burning female furrow was making her suffer for it.
    'It isn't fair at all/ she enunciated carefully, tugging at her shorts which were suddenly uncomfortable and clinging. Tight between her slim, hot legs. 'He thinks he's got "Delia" but he hasn't. He's got "Deana"!' She took another pull at her drink, surprised to find it brimming again. There was already an 'empty' on the table. 'I love her, Pete, I really do! But I wish to hell that she could've sprained her ankle or something.'
    'I do too.'
    The dead, blank seriousness in Peter's quiet voice was a new shock. It jerked her back to sobriety. He did what? Wish Deana had a sprained ankle? Or was it something else?
    Looking up from her glass with new clarity, she saw a very different man to the Peter she knew and was fond of. This was an angry man. An aroused man. A man full of passion and fire, not the mild-mannered almost genderless friend that she always took for granted.
    'You're in love with