Free The Looters by Harold Robbins Page A

He started rubbing it slowly.
    “Yes,” I moaned. “Do it harder. It’s coming.”
    I gave in to the orgasm as it coursed through my body, writhing in the warm water with sexual ecstasy.
    Sweat broke out on my face. I opened my eyes. “Wow, that felt so good.” My body felt like gelatin.
    “Yeah, me, too. I jerked off just watching you.” He smiled.
    We both didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes.
    “I’m not finished yet. Just pretend that I’m your older sister,” I said. “I can do things to you that you’ve never had done before.”
    “Go ahead and rock my world, Sister.”
    “Follow me.”
    I got out of the tub and dried off lightly before I went to the bed.
    His body reminded me of a marble statue, like Michelangelo’s
David
. Pubic hair was left off statues because it wasn’t sexy.
    I put his slender penis in my mouth. Still flaccid, it fit nicely in my mouth. I didn’t enjoy giving Neal head. I had to fake everything with him.
    This Adonis I sucked with pleasure. He was starting to grow in my mouth and I sucked his brains out. He whimpered like a puppy. Before the night was over, I had come three times and he had come twice.
    I lay in bed and watched him dress. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” I smiled at him.
    “Good. Then it was worth five hundred.”
    “What?”
    “Five hundred. That’s what I get for doing older women.”
    I gaped at him. “You motherfucker.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Sisterfucker?”

Chapter 10
    The following morning an interview was scheduled for me to talk about the Semiramis on a popular morning TV talky-news show:
Mornin’ with Cassie and Dane
had a gossipy, latest-Hollywood-celebrity-sex-triangle format. The fact that Hiram was on the board of directors of the network made it a shoo-in for our publicity people to arrange my appearance.
    Cassie Martin was a talking head, a “news” person with collagen lips so puffed a wit had dubbed her the Goodyear Blimp Girl. A natural blonde, she was vulnerable to being the subject of blonde jokes. When I saw her, I started to hum in my mind the country western song sung by Toby Keith where he asks, “Do blondes really have more fun or are they easier to spot in the dark?”
    In a strange way, I realized that Cassie got her job for reasons other than being a pretty face. The world was full of pretty faces, but Cassie had charisma, at least for people who thrive on celebrity gossip. However, Cassie pushed the envelope when she ventured into news commentary about world events. I felt much more confidence about news of the world listening to Paula Zahn and Katie Couric. Frankly, Cassie reminded me of a life-size blow-up doll, a sex object lonely men take to bed for unconditional love.
    Her morning news-talk partner, Dane Evers, was also for display purposes only. His role was to purse his lips and appear grave and concerned when Cassie revealed the intimate details of celebrities. He was also blond but definitely the bottle variety.
    Buff, with skintight short-sleeve shirts exposing thousands of dollars’ worth of personal trainer—created physique, he wore horned-rim glasses to look intelligent and frequently commented on the T & A of women in order to appear masculine and cool. But underneath the thin veneer of macho man was a sensitive countenance and soulful eyes that no heterosexual male since Adam has possessed. The only way I could imagine being in bed with Dane Evers was if I were breast-feeding him.
    As soon as I sat down in front of the cameras, Cassie asked, “So tell us, Madison, about the fascinating history of murder and madness surrounding the museum piece you just bought for fifty-five million dollars.”
    She gave me a toothy smile of perfect caps, bright enough to give me a sunburn.
    It didn’t surprise me that the main interest would be in a tabloid element. I had a problem with history of murder and madness because I wasn’t sure how much it was a product of the imagination of Sir