Free Impulse by Catherine Coulter

wanted to buy. He’d shown Marcus a good half-dozen now, telling him that he owed him for getting blood all over his suit. All the suits were white; they all looked like the ones he already owned. When Marcus had suggested a double-breasted Armani, he thought Merkel was going to expire.
    “Hello, baby.”
    He would have groaned except he decided in that instant to feign sleep.
    “It’s just as well,” he heard her say more to herself than to him. He felt the bed give as she sat beside him. Then he felt her hand slip under the single sheet and stroke over his side.
    He didn’t need this, he didn’t want it. “Paula, stop it, for God’s sake! I’m a sick man and you’re married.”
    “DeLorio is still in Miami and I’ve decided to make you feel better. Think of me as your private nurse. I quite like you, Marcus, even though you act like a jerk toward me sometimes. But then I wonder how many women you’ve made love to, and it makes me hot.” Her hand was on his butt now, and he brought his legs together, but it didn’t matter. Her long fingersslid between his thighs and she was touching him.
    “Paula, stop it!” He reared up, trying to turn, and the pain stopped him cold. He gasped, frozen.
    “Lie down, baby, just lie down. Paula will make you feel better.”
    “Get out,” he said, but his voice was low and indistinct, and he was, incredibly, hard as a stone. Then she helped him onto his side, something he hadn’t expected, because it forced her to get her hands off him. Just for a moment. Then she had the sheet down and he was nude and he was hard and she was looking at him and smiling, and holding him on his side against her body.
    “Very impressive. A long time, Marcus? I like to see a man appreciate me. Let’s see how far the appreciation goes, shall we?”
    “Please,” he said, wishing he had the strength to push her away. He could have found the strength, he finally admitted to himself, he was just choosing to lie to himself and not use it. He tried to roll back onto his stomach, but she just moved closer, sitting against him, holding him still. He groaned when her hand closed over his cock. She found her rhythm and she talked to him, sex talk, that made him furious and aroused him quickly, too quickly. His breath was heaving and he was shuddering. She released him and he felt her warm mouth close over him and he was shoving into her mouth and she took him, and God, she was good, not giving him a moment’s respite, and he jerked in her mouth and as he came she caught him in her hand again. He panted, sucking in deep breaths, the pain in his shoulder momentarily suspended. She was on her knees next to the bed, and strands of her white-blond hair were clinging to his sweating belly.
    She looked up him. “That was very nice—for you,Marcus. Next time, it’s for me, okay? I hear someone coming. Probably Merkel. Just keep the sheet up and he won’t know what you’ve done.” She giggled as she wiped her hand quickly on the sheet.
    Marcus heard her say something to Merkel in the hall.
    He pulled the sheet to his nose. He felt raped, furious, and eased. Masturbated by Paula, for God’s sake. She was good, and that made him even angrier.
    He opened an eye to see Merkel looking down at him.
    “Smells like sex in here.”
    Marcus closed his eyes again.
    “DeLorio’s coming back tonight. You’ll be safe from her then. I think I’ll spray some pine-forest air freshener in here.”
    Then Merkel laughed again. Another spontaneous laugh, at his—Marcus’s—expense.
    “Go drown yourself.”
    “You want a washcloth, buddy?”
    “I never want to hear your horsey laugh again, you stupid Neanderthal. Yeah, give me a washcloth.”
    “Hurt my feelings, Marcus, you surely do. I know you’ve tried to make me laugh for more months than I can count. Now you did it and you’re pissed. You’re weird.”
    What Marcus wasn’t was weird; what he was, was frantic. He had to get out of here. Paula and her