Revenge chapter 1
THE GIRL WAS BARELY MORE than sixteen. The pupils of her large hazel eyes were enormous. So was her sexual appetite.

Bobby Skorch had picked her up on Sunset as soon as he’d been able to get out of the house, which had been a hassle due to all the fuss over his wife— superstar sex symbol Salli T. Turner—who had gotten herself murdered the night before.

That Salli, Bobby thought, his mind mired in a drugged-out haze, you never knew what she was going to do next, always full of surprises.

Finally he’d managed to sneak out of the house by lying on the floor in the back of his maid’s car. She’d dropped him off at a hotel where he kept a permanent penthouse suite in his manager’s name.

Later he’d taken a cruise along Sunset in the black Ferrari he kept in the basement parking area of the hotel—also registered in his manager’s name.

The girl had been hanging around outside a club, and she’d willingly accompanied him back to his hotel. Now she was riding his dick like she was competing in some kind of equestrian event. He didn’t have to do a thing except lie back and tolerate the ride, because he certainly wasn’t enjoying it. This girl wasn’t Salli. Nobody was Salli. She was one of a kind. The others were all slags and sluts and whores.

He had no idea what the girl’s name was, or whether she had AIDS or the clap—he didn’t care.

Bobby was into taking risks. He’d taken a big risk marrying Salli, whom many people had considered a joke with her large fake tits and cascades of dyed platinum hair.

But hey, a lot of her friends had considered him a risk. Bobby Skorch, the original danger man, with tattoos from here to Cuba, including one on his famous dick.

All he knew was that together they were an awesome sight. S’long, Pammy and Tommy, Heather and Richie. The Skorches ruled.

And he’d loved her with a burning passion. Now she was gone.

The girl spread her legs even wider, practically balancing her mothlike weight on his dick. Then she moaned—a prelude to ecstasy.

He wasn’t there. Not even close. He was hard and angry and stoned and in the worst pain of his life.

When the girl’s moans turned to orgasmic cries and he felt her coming, he screamed his anguish so loud that two maids working on the penthouse floor came running to hover outside the door of Suite 206, their eyes bulging with fear and curiosity.

Satisfied and more than a tiny bit alarmed, the young girl rolled off him, quickly scurrying to get into her clothes. When she reached the door, she looked back at the man, still spread-eagled on the bed, still erect.

There was no release for Bobby Skorch. He was in hell.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.